


Obsessed

by MalfoysMuggleMrs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Astoria Greengrass, Background Slash, Bickering, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Character, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Mystery, POV Alternating, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pureblood Culture, Redemption, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Stalking, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalfoysMuggleMrs/pseuds/MalfoysMuggleMrs
Summary: Hermione Granger's life becomes plagued by a violent stalker. Per request of the Ministry, Britain's brightest war heroine seeks refuge inside the one location where she's entirely untouchable.(**WINNER: Dramione FF Spring Awards for Best Hurt/Comfort Fic**)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! Finally posting this story to AO3 (previously on FFNET only). Hope you guys enjoy xD
> 
> All the beta/brit-picking love in the world goes out to Phinoa. You're amazing, hun!

 

" _This Christmas has been incredible."_

" _Mhm." Hermione's response was faint as she clung tightly to the pillow her head rested upon, the lingering scent of men's cologne mixed with coconut scented shampoo infiltrating her nostrils. It smelt nice – familiar and comforting, just like everything else surrounding them._

" _I don't wanna go back tomorrow. I wanna stay here, with you."_

" _I'll still be here when you and Harry come back in June."_

" _I know... Just promise we can pick back up where we left off." The look in his sleepy blue eyes gave the most hopeful glisten she'd ever seen before, blissfully ignorant and sweetly surreal. "I wanna be with you, 'Mione. For good this time. Hell, I know we've had our problems, but this – what we have – I never wanna lose it. You're it for me."_

 _She felt a tugging inclination to say something back equally as caring; to reassure him of her devotion with an explanation of how she felt the same. Perhaps saying it aloud would mean that she actually did, verbalization to make it all become true. Merlin, she wanted nothing more. "Your er – it. F_ _or me, too. But you know, we still agreed on –"_

" _No dating yet," he supplied as if the statement was entirely that simple. It was anything but. "Nothing serious until I'm home_ _–_ _I know. I just can't bloody wait to be done with Auror training, once and for all. These past two and a half years have been hell on earth... I miss you so much when I'm gone."_

* * *

_You're it for me._

Ron's words echoed inside Hermione's overactive conscious as she grazed a fingertip alongside the radiating warmth coming from her ceramic mug. Wondering if the more she repeated the images, the more likely her internal sentiments to everything might change. By the hundredth go around, it didn't seem likely.

She sat clad in only an oversized bathrobe; a small dinette table occupying her flat within London's city centre holding up nothing more than a cup of chamomile tea and her rested upon elbows – pressed down against its wooden surface as she nervously waited. And waited. As if this was any normal thing to sit around and anticipate.

Hermione's muggle oven illuminated a digital reading of green text against a small black background, her chest tightening with its unsettling visual.

_10:36pm_

She had work the following morning. Another early and hectic Monday at the Ministry, she could nearly guarantee it. A day set to begin no later than eight o'clock sharp, but knowing full well she wouldn't be arriving a single minute past seven thirty. Punctuality held the utmost importance, especially seeing as she presently sat up against two other co-workers for a hefty promotion.

It had been one year since accepting her current position within the Control of Magical Creatures department, a relatively small team composed of only twelve other employees excluding herself. It was a thankless job that underpaid and often overworked, but nonetheless, she adored her work spent defending the rights of those unable to defend themselves. She wouldn't dare allow _this_ to distract away from performing it correctly.

For Merlin's sake, she was Hermione Granger. War heroine. Brightest witch of her age. She needed help from no one other than herself. She could handle this; she _was_ handling this.

Her uneasy feelings didn't lessen despite the internal pep talk, a single sip of hot liquid brought to her parted lips as a hopeful distraction. The fluid burned going down but settled a warmth within the pit of her stomach in return for a fluttering moment of comfort. In spite of all efforts to calm her racing nerves, they didn't settle for long.

Hermione told herself the unwelcome anxiety was purely due to Harry and Ron leaving yesterday for the Auror Academy in Switzerland, their third and final year of training now halfway completed. She always felt so much safer with them home, even if the trio lived separately from one another – Hemione in her London flat while the boys lodged at Grimmauld Place – knowing in the back of her mind they were nearby felt like a reassuring safety blanket in times like this.

Times of _waiting_.

But they were on the downhill slope to completing the rigorous and stressful program, having only five months left – the absolute last thing they needed was to be burdened down with Hermione's minuscule problem of having someone write to her a bit more than necessary. That's all this was. Nothing more.

She glanced over at the clock, only a single minute having passed by since her last check. It seemed late enough by now – perhaps she wouldn't receive anything. No zooming note underneath her door. No unmarked owl appearing at her window with a bizarre letter. No green floo flames engulfing her fireplace with a scroll of parchment bursting through the unwelcomed embers.

Always the same tactic employed just different messages each time. But maybe tonight there would be nothing.

Maybe they'd given up.

Hermione didn't allow the delusion of hope to cloud her judgment; she knew better. She knew this was merely one huge mind game that some domineering person who relinquished in power was playing. The power to make her flinch, the ability to make her scared. She wouldn't allow the satisfaction.

She wasn't even genuinely fearful, she reasoned with herself. Only confused. Confused as to how (furthermore _why_ ) someone desired her attention so badly while gaining nothing back in return.

It started off simple at first: one too many owls arriving in her nowadays dwindling lot of fan mail. Hermione didn't mind the diminished public attention; quite the opposite, actually. Nearly three years later and she was finally away from the spotlights which beamed down so heavily upon her, Ron and Harry after the war. It was better that way. She wanted people to see her for more than just the events of their school days – with their overinflated visions of bravery and pre-formulated opinions. She had more to offer than a brand name to help sell autobiographies about the golden trio who helped defeat Voldemort.

The mystery letters she'd received were no different than most. Kind messages describing how her past accomplishments made the wizarding world a better place; singing words of praise over how she was bright and brave, as did so many others from years prior. Just a fan, if perhaps an overly exuberant one, but nothing out of the ordinary. It hardly made her raise an eyebrow, for the actions at the time seemed harmless enough.

Up until the past week, that is.

Letters had arrived every night for six days straight. Inquiries, demanding Hermione's returned attention, commanding that she write back or even going so far as to request a meetup. Strangely sexual and uncomfortable phrases placed sporadically within the notes to drive home her discomfort. She told herself it was nothing: after all, Harry had an entire brood of fan girls who propositioned him at one time or another, why was this any different?

The only thing was – she couldn't figure out how to prevent them. She'd tried countless different spells; wards, barricading charms, floo channel blocks to make sure the flat was completely secure. By all intent and purposes, it was. But the person knew their way around protection charms better than most. At least well enough to slip a letter past hers each night.

Godric. She knew she had to tell someone. No matter how much she stubbornly wanted to handle things herself, this was becoming more ludicrous the further she thought about it.

Her pulse quickened.

There it was again.

A distinctive ' _swoosh_ ' of parchment gliding across the wooden floors underneath her entryway nearly made Hermione's hair stand on edge, the brunette immediately rising to her feet with automatic and bold determination quickly initiated. She exited her kitchen, walked the short distance across the hallway, and locked eyes on a single letter laying parallel to her front door. The note was sealed in a plain white envelope, with nothing written on the front or back to give a redeemable clue over who sent it. Typical tactics. Gingerly she picked up the late-night intrusion and quickly unfolded its contents to see what could be said this time around.

Hermione's heart sank at the very first glimpse.

Dots. Tiny droplets impeccably scattered, and one large smear across the top right-hand corner. Blood. Bright red, and from the looks of it, relatively fresh; its glossy wet glint across the tattered parchment producing a violent memo able to be interpreted loud and clear.

Hermione's own blood began to boil as her chest constricted with pure anxiety-induced adrenaline. Whose could it possibly be? Surely not someone she knew. Surely not a friend's.

Scare tactics. That's all this was. It likely wasn't even real.

Her breathing slowly steadied as she talked herself down with the attempted rationalisation, forcing her pupils to hone in on the words written in large, sloppy, black scrawl.

_My Dearest Hermione,_

_Ignoring me will get you nowhere, my love. Didn't I tell you in my last letter? There's no use in putting up that silly little spell anymore; I know them all. This wretched Muggle building can barely handle your magic as is, no sense making the walls exude with it._

_I miss you so much._

_That skin-tight jumper you wore yesterday to the train station with those two best friends of yours_ – _I dreamt about it last night. You looked so lovely with your hair down around your shoulders. But for the love of Dumbledore himself, you need to ditch the carrot top. Watching that pathetic sod lean in to kiss you, only to have you all but completely snubbed the entire gesture by turning away... I almost felt bad. Almost. You know you should be with me, darling._

_Good luck with your promotion at work tomorrow. You'll do great. You always do._

_I left a token for you to remember me by right outside your flat. In case you ever question just how serious I am about you, always remember this._

_I know they're your favourite._

Abandoning the letter on her hallway table, Hermione tried to overcome the innate onsets of hyperventilation, the walls feeling like they had all but completely closed in around her trembling frame. This was bad. Worse than anything the person had done before. The shaking was unignorable now, her knuckles white from clutching to her wand so tightly.

She looked through the peephole of her door. Nothing. Not a single thing to see from where she stood. She needed a closer look.

Before her senses could argue, she reached to grab hold of the cold metal knob, keeping her wand poised and ready for attack as she swung open the front door.

The scene waiting for her on the other side could only classify as something straight from one of the poorly directed horror films her dad loved to watch – graphic, cruel, sadistic.

Hermione clutched a hand over her mouth to muffle to scream that escaped without possible avoidance. A scream quickly morphing itself into a violent and terrified sob, her eyes growing wet with moisture which began to develop at either corner.

No.

No, no, NO! This wasn't happening. This was impossible. She clung to the doorframe with one hand for support, attempting to process the turmoil laid out before her.

She hardly even noticed her neighbours down the hallway appear suddenly from around the corner, both dressed as if they were returning from a late night dinner, the young woman clutching a styrofoam to-go box while the man dug in his trouser pocket for what seemed to be a set of keys.

"Matt, oh my god! Look! What _is_ that thing!?"

"Fucking Christ! I-I don't... oh God. Fuck. Jade, go inside... Now! Call the police."

Hermione hardly overheard the hectic exchange or took notice of the man walking up to where she stood petrified within her doorframe.

"Miss…miss, are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened?"

She didn't reply back. She didn't blink. She didn't even breathe, likely for a solid two minutes straight. Her eyes remained fixated; her mind almost shutting down from the brutal murder scene coated across her welcome mat, outrageous words from the forcibly delivered letter dancing within her mind.

_In case you ever question just how serious I am about you._

_I know they're your favourite._

It was young. Small, too. Probably still within the age range considered to be a teenager, though it was hard to be certain with the large knife wounds slashed across its face to match equally with every other lesion around its fragile body. The gory scene was utterly vile; almost enough to make her spew sickness everywhere. Nearly enough to cause her knees to buckle underneath the weight of her now impossibly heavy body.

Completely enough making her forget that a muggle man was now staring dumbfounded at the mangled body of a dead house-elf as she bit back sobs.

They had memory alteration spells for that.

But to fix this? No, for this they had nothing.


	2. Conformity

* * *

_*One Week Later*_  
_12 January 2001  
_ _Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

Alabaster Greengrass forced his fatigued eyes to graze yet another scroll of parchment, reading and analyzing through his original case-notes for what felt like the thousandth time that week. Three particular lines of text kept him going back.

_Protective enchantments used: Protego horribilis, Protego Maxima, Protego Totalum, Repello Inimicum, Salvio hexia._

_Time of Death: Passed Rigor Mortis, death appox. 48 hours before discovery._

_Additional Notes: T_ _wo different handwritings possibly indicated by preliminary survey._

Things weren't adding up, no matter which way he turned them. Puzzling and infuriating it all had become. His team had performed two more interviews that day; only further led in circles with nothing useful to show for it. Not a single piece of evidence pointed anywhere, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.

A voice abruptly cut through the silence, "Well now, if it isn't the famous Auror himself."

Hearing the high-pitched declaration, Alabaster averted his attention from the never-ending pile of paperwork; in time to watch his secretary tentatively escort a woman into the expansive Ministry office before nodding courteously in her direction. He smirked at the intimidating vision standing before him – the woman dressed in expensive black robes and silver pointed heels, clicking her way across the stone floor with each advancing stride. She marched up to his cluttered desk, hardly needing an usher from the younger woman who had nervously led her there.

"I suppose a simple floo-call wouldn't have sufficed. Would it, Alabaster?"

"Good afternoon," he muttered, ignoring her obvious sarcasm and rising from his chair. "Lovely to see you as well, Narcissa. Please, have a seat –"

"I'll stand." Her snippy response matched the facial expression she wore, mirroring a sense of irritation and evident paranoia. He read people well, being in the field for nearly three decades, it was almost a give-in by that point.

"As you wish." He knew the woman better than to push; it would be ill-advised for both their sakes. "Tell me, how have you been?"

"Fine. Better, once you clarify why in Merlin's name you demanded I come here and speak with you."

"I'd hardly say ' _demanded_ ' is the proper term. More so, requested – "

"Your owls were vague." The blonde wasted no time jumping straight to the issue at hand. "And you still won't answer my question over what subject you wish to address."

"I am more than happy to answer your question," he reassured. "As I mentioned earlier, I just needed to talk with you in person, rather than through unsecured letters. It's better this way."

"Meaning, what exactly?" Further confusion sang throughout her wiry tenor.

"It means the topic I need to discuss is confidential," he explained slowly dissolving their conversation into a softer quality. "I trust that you and your husband are doing well, yes?"

She paused, huffing lightly with an undignified snort. "And since when do care about that, Greengrass?"

"Ah, back to the use of surnames, are we Cissy – ?"

"Don't call me that."

"Apologies. Old habits die hard, you know."

She noticeably gritted her teeth. "Stop playing coy, Alabaster. We're not friends, nor have we been for a long time. You don't need to pretend anything, purely to appease me. We aren't in school anymore – "

"As I'm well aware. And suit yourself." He curled his lips upwards into the faintest grin. "It was a simple question."

"A useless question." Her straightforward answer came as a surprise to him, "We are faring _well_. All things considered. Now, tell me... what exactly is your aim here through all of this?"

Alabaster met her icy gaze, standing straighter and strolling over to the small liquor stand located to one side. "Can I offer you a drink? Ogden's? A good Scottish Mead, perhaps? I've been looking for an excuse to get rid of it, truthfully."

Narcissa glared, glancing at the clock hanging above his desk. "It's not even two o'clock yet."

"All the more reason to drink."

"No," she declined. "I'll pass."

"Always were the tough cookie, weren't you?"

Her stance grew more impatient with each passing second. "Explain yourself, now; I'm not dancing around the issue any longer. What business could we possibly have to discuss that requires any confidentiality?"

"Oh, there's plenty." He uncapped the bottle of mead, watching as the dark liquid filled his glass tumbler. "Plenty of business at hand, I mean. Last week was… _busy_ , for my department, to say the least. "

"Hm, was it? Well, unless you're trying to petition additional staff members – which I highly doubt you'd select the wife of an ex-death eater to recruit as your newest Auror – I can hardly see how such dilemma relates."

He ignored her digression and continued, "Two potion's poisoning, one duelling turned homicide, three cases of magic used against Muggles, improper usage –"

"Salazar save us all. If you think for one second," she broke in with a finger pointed, "to accuse my family of involvement in any such events… You have some audacity – "

"Relax yourself." Alabaster held up a hand, taking a swig of his drink and crossing over the office rug beside where she stood. "I wouldn't be telling you all of this if I thought for a second that they were."

"Likely," the blonde scoffed. "Pray tell then, what does 'all of this' even entail? You have yet to expose the basis of this meeting still."

"A stalking case," Alabaster finally illuminated. "And, if I may say so, a rather usual one at that. The purpose of calling you here regards me seeking assistance. Your assistance."

Her eyes narrowed, drawing in the thick air between them to her lungs. "I don't follow."

His glass tumbler was set down before leaning back against his desk. "A week ago, my team was called to a young woman's flat after the discovery of a house-elf left on her doorstep, and a rather disturbing letter to accompany alongside it."

"A house-elf?"

"Dead," he clarified. "Stabbed. Nineteen separate times. Some type of ritualistic killing, we believe. Brutal scene – the girl was quite shaken up about everything. As could be expected."

The witch remained silent, waiting for further explanation before eliciting any reaction. She always took the last move. He mused to himself – years later and still things hadn't changed.

"The most unnerving part is we have no clues pointing anywhere. Three of my best Aurors working on this case and nothing. No incriminating trails of magic, no spells able to be traced. More unsettling, the culprit reserves no problem getting around defensive charms – both cast by the girl originally and more recently, my officers themselves."

He paused waiting for a reply, but she gave none. He continued, "Stalking cases have a history of relatively smooth conviction rates, but there have been... _inconsistencies_ with this one."

"Oh," she finally breathed, eyes glued to him with interest. "Such as?"

"The precise details are insignificant," he waved off the comment making Narcissa's face crease with irritation. "I'm unable to tell you, even if they weren't. We haven't even disclosed some to the girl herself. Though, all things hoping, we should have a nail down in this case within a week. Two at most."

"A week?" she doubtfully echoed. "That seems a bit hopeful, no? Having no leads whatsoever – "

"Trust me, if things go according to plan we'll have this creep tried by Wizengamot and locked away before March... As of right now, the girl's still residing in her flat with Auror supervision. But it's a temporary fix. We need to begin handling things more aggressively. Directly, and not only playing a defensive role."

"I see. And you seek my assistance, how?"

"Simple," he said, eyeing her reaction. "We're currently in the process of drafting the specifics, but it involves... _secrecy_. And the girl to be hidden far away from where the culprit will eventually be lured to. She needs protection. Somewhere no one will be able to locate."

"And you wish for me to provide that protection?" Narcissa smirked. "Sneaky Snake you've always been, Alabaster. I see now why you requested I come alone; seeing as we both know Lucius would naturally object to such scheme. And for good reason."

He took it as a pleasant surprise that her answer wasn't an immediate rejection. "I'm well aware of your husband's convictions. And I know the timing is unfortunate – "

"Explain to me. I don't quite understand. All this effort for one single girl? Seems unusually severe of a ploy for the ministry place on one isolated incident."

Alabaster objected, "The girl is a high-profile target, and we have reason to believe that she's in danger. Life-threatening danger. We plan to do everything in our power to shelter her, this being one of them."

"High-profile?" The pureblooded witch's eyes lit like a match, only for a moment before hiding their intrigue. "Who is she?"

He sighed, having dreaded this moment from the second he wrote the woman originally. If he believed she was looking at him displeasingly now, he knew only worse could come from the surrendered information.

"Hermione Granger."

Any remaining glow of her eyes instantly diminished, replaced with a stone cold vacancy in his direction; gritted teeth hid behind a clenched and unmoving jaw further enunciating her notable displeasure. The witch's posture remained tense, his office feeling like an unwelcome dark cloud had passed over while he silently stood there waiting.

"Are you mad?" she hissed after what seemed like hours. "Surely, you can't be serious."

"As good a joke as it would be," he agreed. "'I'm entirely serious. You know better than I, the Manor's inherent wards are near-impermeable. It houses ancient magic, even the most powerful of wizards haven't been able to trick their way through. Both the war itself and your families post-trial security demonstrated that. There's no doubt in my mind. She'll be untouchable there."

"No, she absolutely will not be!" Her stern reply bellowed throughout his office. "Don't be daft... You know the history. You've taken one to many _Stupefys_ to the head if you think I'm agreeing to something so incredibly preposterous as any plan – "

"Please," he interrupted. "Don't think I proposed the Manor without thoughts of you and Lucius in mind. Quite the opposite, actually. There are other locations. Perhaps none as guarded, but ones that will fulfil the mission all the same – "

"Splendid. Petition those families for this task then. Not mine."

He wouldn't, and they both knew it. None of the backups even came close to providing the level of security necessary. "As you said before, let's not dance around the issues... Believe me, when I say, I dislike seeing your family's name slandered across the papers just as much as you do."

She glared before rolling her eyes. "I highly doubt that – "

"And the fact still stands, you're in no position to reject this proposition. Once everything is said and done, this will be... _beneficial_ for your family's image within the Ministry."

He knew he had her, right there, in the palm of his hands as her ears perked up with duly noted interest. Despite it, her answer still maintained the same feigned-indifferent drawl, "You think I care about that anymore?"

"Of course you do. And temporarily housing a muggle-born war hero? Imagine the spin you could place on that for the Daily Prophet. You'd be deemed a hero yourself, ready and willing to appease for any prior transgressions. Of course, only after we catch the intended felon, that is. Your family will have to sign non-disclosure agreements until such day comes, but as I've said before – conformity is your friend, Narcissa."

"You would know all about conformity, wouldn't you, Alabaster?"

He ignored her snide remarking, replacing it with his own in turn, "I do hope this resistance has nothing to do with the girl's blood-status now – "

"Don't you dare," she warned with yet another lifted index finger.

His words bore a gentle disposition, "I beg your pardon – "

"Don't you dare stand there and patronise me. I won't take it, especially not from the likes of you." Her finger finally lowered, a head-shake given out in his direction as the replacement. "Don't pretend like we aren't cut from the same cloth, Alabaster. Hiding behind a mask of neutrality during the war may have secured your position with the Ministry today, but I know where your loyalties always laid...The biggest fraud if I've ever met one. Pathetic."

_Blood traitor._

He waited for the accusation, but it never came. He became so familiar with the term all those years back; it almost felt as officially marked into his title as Auror itself. His wife resented nothing more – continuously pinging after the former lifestyle they lived in outlandish pureblooded luxury, envying every gala, ball, and fundraiser she neglected an invite from. He always wanted more, though; he had wanted better. Nearly three years post-war and he could safely say his decision was warranted. Not to fight with The Order, though not to fight alongside Voldemort. A happy medium.

Far better than the current medium the Malfoys now found themselves trapped within. Somewhere caught between being blood traitors – defecting last minute and narrowly avoiding Azkaban while their counterparts were left to rot – and gutless Death Eaters the remainder of the world still labelled as such.

She didn't have to say it aloud to make her thoughts apparent. Neither did he.

Alabaster began slowly, "I did what was best for my family – "

"You did what was best for your career," said Narcissa with a muffled huff. "There's a difference."

It wasn't a lie. Over twenty-five years as a practising officer and he wasn't going to throw it away to follow the preachings of a perilous and dark wizard. No matter how much he may have followed the teachings formerly… currently.

"It's fascinating really," she mused. "I saw your daughter's pre-nuptial announcement in the Daily Prophet the other day. Marrying Flint's son, yes? Surely, such a progressive-pureblood like yourself would shudder at the very idea of an _arranged marriage_ – "

"And what misleads you into believing it's arranged?"

"Please," smirked Narcissa. "I'm no idiot. Besides, there's been… _talk_."

"As there always is within your inner circle. None of which concerns you, I'd imagine." The wizard returned her smirk. "Now, back to the girl – "

"She's hardly a girl," the blonde quipped. "Far from it! I refuse to commit my days to being spent babysitting and doting upon a grown adult woman."

"Pity. And here I thought babysitting grown adults was your speciality."

Her cheeks flushed with rage, eyes shooting daggers across the room. It was a low blow, but one he correctly assumed would elicit a response. "How dare you – "

"Sorry," he said, holding up both hands in retraction. "That was uncalled for... You must understand, though; this agreement will demand little. All the girl needs is a room. Perhaps a house-elf to bring up her daily meals and assist with whatever she may require from day to day. One week hopefully, as I said. Two tops."

The blonde stood there, doubt etched across her pretty and pointed face.

He sprinkled on some added spice to assist in his favour, "And I swear to you, at the end of this, the Ministry will forever be indebted to your family with gratitude. The daily prophet will sing words of your praise. Is that not what you've wanted back?"

She hesitated before questioning, "And the… girl. She's agreed to this, has she?"

"We've yet to inform her," he answered, running a hand through his thinning hair before continuing. "She's been nothing but agreeable thus far; I see no reason for this to be any different."

"This is entirely different."

"This is what's best for her safety."

Narcissa scoffed, "She won't see it that way. Nor do I."

"Well, until one of you gets appointed Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement, this is what I'm requesting be done."

"Surely somewhere else – "

"Would be incredibly convenient, yes. But not safer."

Her eyes shunted downward, completely avoiding his gaze. "A week, you say?"

"Two at most."

"Ask the girl." Her tone held disgust, but her words answered otherwise. "Owl me her response. By no means am I saying yes to any of this, but we will be… in touch."

"Marvellous," Alabaster grinned broadly. "I'll have my secretary begin drafting the non-disclose agreements and send them your way as well."

* * *

Hermione combed a set of fingers through her wet mop of tangled brown hair, pulling her robe tightly around before fastening its long belt.

She had requested to leave work nearly two hours early that day – a lack of concentration grudgingly having become her afternoon disposition on the unusually dreary Monday. Her supervisor readily agreed without much question, seeing and she already finished the majority of her work which was due the following morning. Two drafted proposals on her bosses desk and one well-investigated publicity release for the Daily Prophet.

Hermione hadn't been home a full thirty minutes before deciding a shower and further at-home work would be just what she needed to clear her head.

Alone.

Or more accurately, without the typical office interruptions, seeing as she hardly considered her time as truly being spent alone anymore.

Staring into the mirror's reflection of palmed away steam, she noted how deeply her eyes weighed with sleep-deprivation; outwardly displayed through dark crescents and heavily hooded eyelids. Despite every ounce of logic, her body still found ways to accompany its inward distress. Not that any of the distress was ever really justified; it wasn't.

She was safe. Protected. Or so she continually swore.

Hermione's thoughts organised themselves into endless images played every night. No matter how much dreamless sleep potion she tried to consume, the visions would still eventually creep through – as if she bore immunity to the medicine's desired effects. It was likely, seeing as her tolerance was probably high.

She was no stranger to volatile nightmares or self-induced insomnia, having known both quite well over the last few years. Gods, forgive if for one stolen second she appreciated her prior dreams of bloodied friends and death eaters chasing after her being replaced temporarily by the newfound terrors of last week. Logically she knew they were equally as horrendous, but she had dealt with worse. Much worse.

This was nothing. Terrible, vile, evil – yes. But something she could handle all the same.

She felt aggravation that no one else seemed to agree, acting as if she were suddenly some delicate figurine needing protection. She was stronger than this. Stronger than any fears.

Though perhaps not.

Bollocks it all was.

A calming draught found its way to her cracked lips; skin split open from nervously chewing on them with careless abandon throughout her workday. A comforting relaxation from the potions compounds washed over, making Hermione feel almost normal again. Almost.

Sighing, she walked out from the bathroom and into her small sitting area – the room decorated modestly with a bookshelf, couch, coffee table and two armchairs.

"Have a nice shower?"

Hermione smiled meekly at the young woman who just spoke, sitting on her couch and drinking a large cup of black coffee with a stack of paperwork perched on her lap. Estelle Howard, a dark haired witch only a few years older than herself, was one of the officers given the duty of watching over her flat for the last week. Initially, Hermione had insisted she was capable of her own protection, though the Ministry's insisting's had been greater.

The two women got well enough but having a complete stranger all but move-in was quite the adjustment for anybody to accommodate – especially one having always prized her privacy and mildly reclusive tendencies. Nevertheless, they had become comfortable enough friends.

The witch was bright; bubbly and polite in an easy-going way that made Hermione feel more content than she imagined being the case with most. Estelle was one of three Aurors discharged to the scene that fateful night, (after Hermione had sent up her summoning signal) the woman helping with a quick cleanup and effortlessly performing memory alteration on the two muggle witnesses.

Merlin help, she tried to push down the gruesome memories, but they always managed to resurface.

"It was good," she lied, glancing over at the slip of parchment the woman was clutching. "Oh no... Another letter, I'm guessing?"

"It came while you were in the shower," Estelle acknowledged, sipping her coffee. "But don't worry, this one's addressed to me this time."

"What?" Hermione's eyebrows shot up, confused by the implication. She sat down beside the woman before asking, "You're getting threats now also? You said the silencing charms would make it so no one would know I had an Auror staying here with – "

"It's from my boss actually," Estelle clarified, grinning over at Hermione. "Don't look so relieved, that's equally as terrifying. I assure you."

"Oh, is it?" Hermione managed a smile back. "Terrifying bosses are a bother, I suppose."

"And mine wrote to inform me that he wishes to speak with _you_." Estelle lifted her hand to point in Hermione's direction. "Tonight. He said he'd be stopping by your flat at around 5 o'clock to discuss the department's current plan of action."

"Plan of action?" Hermione repeated with confusion. "What further plan of action could be taken beyond having a junior Auror physically live with me as a bodyguard? Did they find out more information as to where the owl from yesterday came from?"

"No that's the issue… They're getting impatient with the stagnant condition of everything. They want to take more of an offensive approach."

"Oh... and they've told you what that is?"

Estelle looked as if she didn't want to answer but eventually nodded her head. "Yes. I was debriefed this morning when I stopped by the Ministry, but I didn't think the office would have an actual proposal sketched so soon. I figured it might take a couple of days for our department to figure out the details."

"Details? How are they supposed to actively peruse this person if they don't even know who or what they're looking for?"

"Precisely why they need a plan."

"Estelle… what's going on?"

She averted eye contact before answering, "It's probably best if we wait until Officer Greengrass is here so he can explain everything himself."


	3. Disguised

 

Five o'clock came sooner than anticipated.

Hermione had completed little work following Estelle's disclosure of their upcoming meeting. Regarding _what_ , exactly? She was unaware. Clueless as could be, she wondered how many different times it was possible to phrase a question and attempt to squeeze out details in a roundabout fashion. Finally, she accepted defeat, the other girl still refusing to give any supplementary information about the impromptu gathering and its purpose.

Total insanity, Hermione thought it all to be. Absurd and unsettling. But what counterargument did she have to excuse herself from it?

Regardless, she could think of nothing ruder than someone announcing to stop by a stranger's home (uninvited and last-minute) without so much as a formal request out in advance. Her flat appeared as nothing more than a crime-scene as far as the Magical Law Enforcement seemed concerned.

She ignored her stomach's growling and the accompanying head-fogginess becoming a new permanent disposition. It didn't help that her mind wandered to ten minutes back when Estelle had lightheartedly joked about how they would need to order a large pizza after this whole ghastly ordeal was through. At least she and the girl (raised by a muggle mother herself) could agree on proper comfort food. Hermione contemplated going into the kitchen and inhaling whatever quick snack could be eaten within minutes, but she knew the knots tied in her stomach would prevent it. They always did.

A knock at her front door interrupted the thoughts of stomach pangs, nearly making Hermione jump from her skin while the other witch gave out a half-hearted smile before standing to answer the visitor's call.

After lowering her protective wards and challenging the person to state a password, Estelle opened the door. A tall man who appeared in his mid-forties with thinning brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses stood on the opposite side; a friendly look rested upon his rather broad face. He greeted the younger Auror and strolled inside, requiring no further invite before crossing the threshold.

"Good evening Miss Granger," the man greeted. Once within arm's length, he offered a hand for Hermione to take, firmly shaking it once she extended her own in return. "My name is Alabaster Greengrass. It's lovely to finally meet you, dear. Though I do wish under better circumstances."

No introduction was needed; she knew exactly who he was. She recognized the older wizard – both from post-war trials and a handful of other sightings she'd seen of him around the Ministry. Always with various assistants or a brood of Aurors trailing at his tail. He frequently strutted around with his head held up, appearing to have somewhere of the utmost importance and urgency to be. She supposed, being the new Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement, he probably did. Unlucky for Hermione, her flat seemed to be that place tonight.

"Pleasure." She forced herself to return the man's warm greeting. "Can I offer you anything?"

"Oh, no, no." The man shook his head. "Please, don't mind me. I apologize for disrupting your evening on such a late notice... I requested for your supervisor to send you down to my office earlier, but he'd said you'd gone home for the day."

"Yes." Hermione looked down sheepishly, almost feeling a sense of guilt over it. "I finished up work early and left around two this afternoon."

"As your supervisor explained. He speaks very highly of you, you know." His eyes drifted to the display of various awards hanging on her cream-colored wall. "And for a good reason. I do suppose congratulations is in order – I overheard your division has a newly appointed junior liaison. Youngest in history, I'd bet."

"Thank you," said Hermione, doubting him to have any true interest in her recent promotion within the Beings division of her department.

The mindless chatter lasted longer than Hermione would've hoped: courteous exchanges and polite casualties that skirted the real issues at hand. She was thankful for Estelle and the girl's ability to talk effortlessly, no matter how dull the conversation veered. She didn't quite know how to cut in with, 'spit it out, what in Merlin's name are you here for?'

Much to her relief, she didn't have to. Soon the conversation was shifted.

"Now dear, forgive my bluntness, but I was looking over some notes from last week." Officer Greengrass clasped his hands together before continuing. "And something struck me as rather odd."

"Really?" Hermione's interest perked up. "How so?"

"You cast _Slavio Hexia_ that night before the letter came through, correct?"

"Yes. And a few times before then... although I haven't gotten one delivered in person like that since last Sunday. I agree it is rather odd, though. All the research I've seen has it listed as one of the more challenging spells to get around."

"And that's the thing," the man spoke, gesturing more with his hands than Hermione thought truly necessary. "It is. The counterspell isn't well known and invading a properly cast barrier isn't something your average wizard off the street is capable of."

Hermione knew all of this, though pretended like his explanation was entirely new information. "Interesting. Does that narrow down the list of suspects then? Assuming the person is someone with knowledge over defensive barriers and their counterspells – "

"Ah, see. There's the other issue." Greengrass spoke more calmly than Hermione understood possible. "Not only does the person possess the ability to get through your wards, but they also have well-reformed skills to prevent their magic from being traced."

"Meaning you have no leads?" Hermione insinuated, a familiar sense of hopelessness creeping up. "A week and nothing?"

"Unfortunately yes," he confirmed. "Nothing yet, though we hope to change that soon. Correction – not hope – know. We _know_ we'll be able to change that. All we need is your agreed cooperation for our plan to work."

A plan? Hermione could follow through with a plan, easy enough. She'd been waiting for a better strategy all along, rather than playing the role of a sitting duck, and expect the person simply just fall into their laps. No more letters. No more waiting. Action. Pure unadulterated action. "Of course I'll help. I want this killer caught, so whatever you need from me... just tell me what I can do."

"Wonderful! That's exactly what I hoped you'd say. I want you safe Miss Granger; this is a terrible, terrible situation for any young woman to be put through. I can't even begin to imagine if it were my own daughters..." he trailed off before pausing briefly. "Which is why I'm requesting you be relocated to a safe house while we – "

"A safe house?!" Surely Hermione had heard wrong. "What do mean? Your department cleared me to stay here – "

Estelle took a step forward. "You'll just be staying somewhere else for a little bit while we handle the case. That's all."

"Handle the case?!" Hermione was growing more anxious though every progressive word. "How can you possibly handle the case without me there? If the person is as brilliant as you say, won't they figure out if I've gone missing – "

"Which is precisely why you _won't_ be missing."

_What was that suppose to mean?_

Stammering Hermione's mouth went dry, "Well, I-I won't just cower in fear while this creep gets away with what he's done. Potentially doing it to others in the meantime – "

"You won't be cowering in fear," said Estelle, dark hair framing her pretty face with caring eyes to match. "I'll be there. I'll be _you_... Well, pretending to be, I mean."

With a crashing sense of realisation, Hermione's jaw nearly slammed to the floor. Suddenly the plan became clear, though hardly registering any genuine understanding by her senses. "No," she declared, a desire to fulfil the childish reaction of stomping her feet and crossing her arms being pushed down. She remained still as a statue. "Absolutely not! You're saying YOU," she pointed at Estelle's petite frame. "Would impersonate me while I'm just – "

"Protected and unattainable," the witch supplied before Hermione could complete her racing implication. "Yes, that's right... Look, the longer we postpone this, the more dangerous it becomes."

"For everyone," Greengrass cut it, making her attention snap back to his overpowering stance. "A bit of Polyjuice potion and a well-planned ruse incorporating multiple Aurors – the culprits good as caught. Officer Howard can easily go undercover and trick this bastard into handing himself over – "

"I'll do it!" Hermione didn't even let the wizard finish his explanation. "Estelle shouldn't be put in danger when I'm completely capable. That's pointless! I can do it myself; I'll help lure them to wherever you need."

"Miss Granger." The man held up his hands. "With all due respect – I don't for a moment doubt your abilities. Or your obvious intellect, for that matter. The offer is valiant, but the reality still stands: you are not a trained officer."

"So?"

"So, you haven't been through academy, nor passed any speciality training. And most important, you haven't willingly agreed to follow a career path which requires your safety be frequently put at risk. Officer Howard has – "

"But I'm willing to."

"And I know you mean well – but under my orders – I will not have a civilian endanger their life to perform tasks only a trained, licensed Auror should be doing."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Hermione shot back, emotion flowing from her lips. "I've likely risked my life just as often as she has. Perhaps more – "

"Not under my reign," he replied equally harsh. "Not if I can help it. This isn't even comparable to back then. Your safety is the Ministry's number one priority right now. I've spoken with Kingsley, and he's in agreement. You need protection."

Hermione took a deep breath, attempting to calm the pitter-pattering of her racing heart. "I have a job. I have a life! I can't just pick up and leave." She wasn't a coward. She wouldn't act like one. Not like this; that would give them control. It would mean they've won.

"I've spoken with your supervisor as mentioned before. He understands the severity of everything and is fully willing to work with us while Officer Howard goes undercover. Completely under sworn secrecy, of course. She can even deliver some of your paperwork to be done away from the Ministry – "

"For how long?" she questioned. "A month? Six months?"

"Heavens no! A week or two... once you're away, luring the man into meeting up with us should be pumpkin juice in comparison to what we've been doing."

Hermione wasn't convinced; the thought of anyone ingesting a steady supply of polyjuice potion to impersonate her was the most idiotic plan she'd ever heard. Could she live with the guilt if Estelle was injured trying to protect her well-being while she sat far away, cosy and oblivious to it all? No. Of course not. The man was an absolute lunatic even to suggest it. She was more than capable of doing the job. Hell, she'd figure out the person's identity herself if she had to.

"You can fight me on this all you'd like, but my opinion won't waiver." Officer Greengrass smiled with darting eyes between Hermione and Estelle. "We have two options. The first – do as I suggest – luring and eventually capturing this stalker within weeks."

"Or?"

"Or continue with what we've been doing... In turn, placing your life, and the life of every muggle living around here in danger. Keep in mind dear; this individual has murdered before. Who's to say they won't do it again?"

Estelle spoke up, "Pattens are usually repetitive with these types of people. Each letter sent out is getting progressively more threatening. Right now, they're just a ticking time bomb."

She was right. They were both right. The thought of another innocent life being snuffed out through heartless violence intended for her was too much weight to bear. "I see," she said, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt nervously. "Where do you suggest I go?"

"The most hidden away sanctuary we could recruit." The way his tone lingered made Hermione weary to the words themselves. "Large enough for you to have your own room, private enough to harbour few if any, interruptions. Guaranteed concealment and guaranteed confidentiality, I can assure you."

"Oh?" she had to admit; the qualities seemed uplifting enough. And two weeks? Surely anyone could suffer through misery for a measly two weeks if the return meant getting this lunatic captured. No matter how much of a feckless bint the capturing process made her look. "Sounds... adequate. I suppose."

"Believe me; it's more than adequate."

"And you seem overly confident in its protective enchantments..." The stalker had been relentless so far, who's to say they wouldn't find her elsewhere?

"Because I have no doubt in my mind, it's the last place anyone will come looking for you. And security isn't an issue; this home has the best."

_The best._

"Where is it?"

The pair of Aurors exchanged a brief glance before Greengrass stepped forward, his eyes locking on Hermione's hesitant posture before speaking.

"Wiltshire." He cleared his throat before dropping the massive bombshell. "Miss Granger, I've arranged for you to stay at the Malfoy Manor while we sort through finding this man."

...

Silence. Pure, uninterrupted, silence filled her flat. Deafeningly loud and horrendously uncomfortable. Has she heard him wrong? Was she going mental? Yes. That's it. Surely, there had to be a misunderstanding of the English language happening because in no way was he suggesting what she thought he was. No bloody way.

"No."

"I understand you probably have hesitations – "

" _Hesitations_?" The floor beneath Hermione wobbled, her body treading on the edge of cognizance while blood drained from her spinning head. "This isn't a hesitation... it's a flat-out no."

* * *

 **_12 January 2001 - 8:47 pm  
_ ** **_*Muggle London*_ **

"Wait, stop!" said a hushed voice, halting to prevent another step taken forward. "We can't go inside – "

"Why not?"

"That man," explained the original speaker, gazing parallel to the multi-level complex they stood before. The London pavement was its usual bustle of evening excitement, blending them into the overactive scenery without much effort. "Over there! See? The one sitting down... He's from the Ministry, I recognise him."

"You mean that muggle squatter? Are you blind?"

"No, he's gotta be a disguised Auror. He wasn't there last week. Oh god. _Oh god_ , she called them! There's probably more inside her flat also... I told you! Shit! I told you the house-elf thing went too far – !"

"Merlin, calm the fuck down," the second voice hissed. "We planned for this, remember? It's fine –"

"Fine! Fine? If they see us walking around here, casing the joint like some bleeding criminals... we're done for. They'll recognise me in a heartbeat!"

"Baby, they won't see us." The voice was soothing, a smile and touch of hands conjoining them before speaking once more. "Even if they did, no one's going to suspect anything. It's _us_... Hey, shhh. What did I say? You just focus on getting around the wards. I'll make sure our tracks are covered, alright?"

"But if we just...didn't. You know, if we didn't send anything tonight? We must've given her a right good scare already if – "

"Already?" the word echoed. "More like, _finally_... Took the chit long enough to cry for help; fucking idiot has an unanswered death wish."

"Death wish?" The phrase contained unnecessary harshness. "Look, can't we just lay off a little – ?"

"You're being pathetic again."

"But if we get caught here – "

"We won't get caught! Fuck! How many times do I have to tell you?" Annoyance rang throughout the icy words before softening. "Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do. I'm here, aren't I?" No matter how terrible of an idea being there was. "It's just... this isn't funny anymore."

"You're right; it's not funny. It's hilarious..." The differing voice grew colder though each sentence. "I told you, that bitch has to pay for what she did. One way or another. You're either in this with me or not. Take your pick."

As if there was any real choice.

"You know I'm always with you." A brief but tender kiss sealed the shaky answer. Heavens forbid if the disguised wizard across the street saw, but he didn't so much as look up from the newspaper his head was tucked away in. Likewise, not a single passer-by seemed to bat an eyelash towards the affectionate gesture. No stares. No questions. A refreshing sensation of relief washed over.

"Good. Because I've got a plan."


	4. Apathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the ending scene from chapter 3 makes up the first part of this.
> 
> Thanks for reading everybody!

 

~Chapter 4: Apathy~

* * *

 

 

"Will you stop making that face already? You're gonna give yourself wrinkles."

"It's just… he looks hurt."

And he truly did; with his face scrunched up and a small cut leaking redness across his temple after such forceful impact. The man lay motionless on the cold pavement, a _Stupefy_ he'd been hit with proving enough to render unconsciousness and reduce him to nothing more than a messy heap within the desolate alleyway. An overflowing dumpster and some broken down cardboard boxes were his only company, the other two bodies remaining hidden, and segregated from any potentially suspicious passer-bys.

"He's fine."

 _Fine_. _What a pathetic and meaningless word._

"He could lose his badge for this, you know."

"Well, maybe if he weren't such a shitty excuse for an Auror, he wouldn't be in this predicament." The man's abandoned wand was lifted from the ground. "Idiot followed you right down here, didn't he? Fucking moron... like taking candy from a Squib."

"What are you doing with that!?"

"Shh, keep your voice down!"

"But I thought we were just going to – "

" _Obliviate_." The flicker of a charm escaped from the wand's tip, aimed at its disarmed and disabled owner. "...What? You didn't think I was going to use _mine_ , did you?"

"No." A heavy breath escaped. "Let's just deliver this and get the hell out of here. Hurry. Before he wakes up."

"Love, _we're_ not bringing it up there." The wand was twirled around before being grasped tightly and lowered back down. "Don't you suppose our friend might like a visit from her own kind tonight – along with a hand delivered note and everything?"

_Oh no._

"Hey... wait up! Where're you going?"

An explanation never came; little hope existed to stop whatever it was regardless.

" _Her_." A finger pointed down the long muggle-ridden sidewalk. "There. The one walking towards us."

"Who –?"

"Shhh! Get ready."

The muggle gestured at was a woman: older and somewhat haggish in appearance, but alone. Anyone having walked by the alleyway would've likely been implored; she just happened to be the unlucky one selected for such job.

The Auror's mismatched wand was lifted once more, visibly resisting the unforgivable which sparked out by means of an incompatible user forcing dark magic through its core.

" _Imperio_."

* * *

_***Malfoy Manor*  
13 January 2001 – 8:20 am** _

_Narcissa,_

_I have lovely news to deliver your way this morning. I have recently spoken with Miss Granger, and she is overjoyed by your family's newfound generosity in regards to her protection. There was yet another incident last night – while no one was injured, it has caused our department to request a hastening of this process. I trust you understand._

_Please send in your letter of official acceptance directly to my office by this afternoon. Attached are the three non-disclosure forms I need signed and returned along with it. Again, your cooperation in this matter is continuously appreciated._

_A.G._

Overjoyed.

Generosity.

_Acceptance._

Narcissa did her best not to chuckle at such blatant embellishments scrawled across the Ministry-emblemed parchment. She hadn't even disclosed a formal decision yet, and here he was, already presuming acceptance like his request was just some invite out to midday teatime. The man was a master at manipulation; she had to hand it to him. A true Slytherin at heart – it was no wonder he'd successfully snaked his way through every Ministry promotion over the last several years to coast into the position he now held.

She hardly imagined the girl being 'overjoyed' regarding stepping foot inside the Manor no matter what the motivation, though if anyone could sway her toward saying yes to such a laughable scheme, it was Alabaster Greengrass. She (on the other hand) reserved her more than justifiable doubts.

The sound of heavy footfalls originating from their adjoining master suite caused Narcissa to shove the letter into her vanity's top compartment, swivelling around to face the approach.

"Blasted things."

Her attention focused towards her husband's voice, yielding notable frustration as he spoke out to no one in particular.

Merlin, not this again.

A forced smile fell upon her lips, crossing over their bedroom floor, and watching Lucius attempt in vain to fold over the bottommost segment of his sleeve's edges while simultaneously threading a small object through. She'd sworn to herself the last time, _absolutely sworn_ ; she would throw those bloody cufflinks away. That set was especially troublesome, difficult to fasten and never worth the quarrel they inevitably sparked.

"Darling, let me help – "

"No!" Lucius stubbornly protested, fiddling with the small silver stud in one hand while the other fought to remain still. "I can do it!"

Sighing, she observed without further argument, up until the point when the metal objects fell atop the plush carpet fibres and elicited a choice swear word from her husband's soured mouth. With that, she withdrew her wand: waving it and causing the fallen items to immediately latch themselves on both sleeves without even requiring an incantation uttered.

Lucius glared but said nothing in response. His face revealed plenty, sunken in with hints of shame and embarrassment they both knew all too well. She rarely ventured towards giving out soothing reassurances in return – they did little good. He always remained bitter, regardless of her attempted comforts. Though, his former fury was slowly becoming replaced with something else entirely – an overall sense of admitted defeat becoming the new norm for him. Sadness, sparked by everyday struggles of the once simplest tasks.

A soothing reassurance right then tingled at her tongue, slight and harmless in nature. The truth, unlike so many others, told before it.

"You look lovely today, darling."

Lucius's lip twinged, face softening as his gaze averted back to hers. "As do you, Narcissa."

And within minutes he was gone again. Narcissa left alone, repeating the same mantra that she told herself nearly every day for two and a half years: _at least he's home._ The punishment could have been worse. The punishment _had_ been far worse before. He was safe. He was alive. And he was home.

Surely a snapped wand equated to nothing in contrast to a life spent in Azkaban. The punishment had been light – then sentencing more than fair. Not ideal or even _pleasant_ by any means, but better than most everyone within their former circle received. She only wished he could see it that way.

In times of difficulty, Lucius would occasionally spurt off nonsense about how rotting away in some prison block deemed more honourable than being degraded down to a life spent living as 'a court-induced squib' (as he claimed it). It wasn't; she always reminded him.

Some days were worse than others, but the overall sense of regret and wasted time spent pining never left. Pining for the life they once lived, the life they had taken for granted. Money wasn't an issue, unlike for some of Voldemort's former followers, even after paying war reparations **,** they maintained more than enough. But there were some things which no amount of money could hope to replace.

This was one of them.

It took Narcissa less than an hour to sit back down at her bedroom vanity, pulling out the letter and placing it beside a blank slip of parchment before she began to write.

_I am willing to make a deal in turn for my 'acceptance' as you've once more prematurely presumed._

_If you can promise an appeal regarding the former judgment from Lucius's trial, (assisting with the reinstatement of his wand and permission to practice magic forthright), I will guarantee the girls safety. If not, you can look elsewhere for assistance in this task._

_Respond sometime before this afternoon or my offer will be retracted._

_N.M._

She was clutching at straws; the request was a long shot by any and every means. But if it somehow _did_ work… well, then housing that unfortunate girl may be well worth the trouble, after all.

* * *

 

The sound of raindrops and the feelings of gut-wrenching awoke Draco from his comatose slumber. Threats to empty his stomach's content atop the Egyptian cotton he lay tangled within washed over, though he managed to swallow down the sensations long enough to prevent any such outcomes. His head throbbed; his eyelids heavy with early morning resonance mixed with a wicked hangover. _Early morning?_

Not likely.

It didn't take long to recognize that it was neither rain hitting against his windowpane nor nausea which truly awoke him.

Draco's eyes instantly fell to his mother's nearby form, standing in his doorway and strolling inside only once he managed to peel his body up from the mattress's gripping hold. He resisted a snippy comment – about knocking first or rudely waking somebody up while asleep – which tugged at his tongue. He'd learn time and again; such remarks did little good when it came to the woman

"Did you go somewhere?" she questioned, eyeing him intently. "I went looking for you upstairs last night; I thought you might've gone out for the evening."

"No." One word and it brought with it feelings of the Sahara desert inside his mouth. "I was here."

Here. Every fucking day. He thought it unnecessary to mention how ' _here_ ' directly translated into going down to the lake behind the Manor with a bottle of firewhisky in tow, seeing as she could likely assume that detail from his present condition.

"I see."

He waited for the standard gripes, and _tisk's_ to arrive. She relished in every opportunity to reiterate: if he was going to drink himself into a comatose stupor, he at least needed to make a _social_ event of it. With friends and fellow peers that he could use for networking, instead of being held up in his potions lab all night, doing ' _Merlin knows what,_ ' as most evenings of his ended. Alone.

As if company somehow made things better.

Maybe _better_ for the Daily Prophet so that they could publish more articles regarding his 'reckless escapades.' Or maybe for his dwindling friend group, so he could later self-validate to himself that he had any at all. Most definitely for his mother, so he could prove to her how seriously he took the responsibility to rebuild, repair, and rectify their tarnished reputation.

As if any of it fucking mattered anymore.

Surprisingly, no such judgments passed from her mouth. She only smiled and held his gaze. "Come downstairs for lunch once you've cleaned up, alright?"

"Lunch?" Fucking hell, it was already past noon. Food sounded more horrendous than a swift kick to the face right then. She often insisted dinner be eaten as a family, but lunch was hardly ever made into a scheduled affair. "Why?"

"I have some things I need to discuss with you," she explained, crossing over to his large window and drawing back the curtains, light pooling in despite the dark and rainy setting behind them. Just what his headache needed.

"What?"

"Get up and get dressed." Her answer held a more solemn tone than before, turning to leave, though not before calling back, "And you'll find out."

His door had closed before he was even able to make a rebuttal.

Salazar save him, Draco swore she only schemed these things to get him out of bed some days. If the conversation were in regards to any upcoming society charity ball or ( _god forbid_ ) which shade of drapes to select for the manor's scheduled overhaul, he'd need shot of firewhisky instead of milk mixed in with his morning coffee to make it through the Inquisition.

Despite it all, Draco begrudgingly obliged to her request within minutes. He pulled out a pair of clean robes from his closet, dressing quickly before tossing back a hangover potion to make himself feel slightly more human again. Slightly.

Once dressed, Draco made the descent downstairs. He quickly reached his destination of the dining room to which his mother occupied alone – sipping tea and sitting at the long table with multiple documents lying face down before her. His mind began racing.

"What are those?"

Narcissa's pale eyes watched him as he approached, her lips holding their straight line as not to give away any sentiments quite yet. "Sit down, dear," she instructed, disregarding his questions and motioning towards the chair parallel her own.

Almost immediately after sitting down, a house-elf appeared at Draco's side. The creature carried along with it a mug of coffee and a plate filled with steaming food: Bacon, eggs, sausage, and toast all staring back at him through a nauseating display.

"Since you missed breakfast," Narcissa smirked from across the table. "Eat up. You hardly touched your dinner last night, you know."

He rolled his eyes; the statement said as if he was a fucking five-year-old who needed their caloric intake monitored. Draco grimaced at the plate, pushing it away before bringing the liquid-filled mug towards his lips. The aroma of food combated with the potion inside his stomach, decreasing its effects with each subsequent steaming moment the meal sat before him.

Draco questioned, "You're not eating?"

"No, I ate hours ago."

Right. Seeing as she'd likely been awake since the crack of dawn that morning, eating breakfast before he even made it past his second sleep cycle. "And father?" he asked, head motioning to the empty seat beside her.

"Is in his study," Narcissa explained. "I wanted to speak to you alone first."

 _Alone first?_ The words made Draco's hair stand on edge.

Merlin, if this were some desperate ploy of to convince him into courtship – _or worse_ – a drafted request of betrothal, he would finally succumb the firewhisky's muted revenge all over those bloody paper. His mother casually mentioned the idea of marriage almost bi-weekly by this point. Fucking twenty years old and she acted like he needed to single-handedly replenish the pureblooded wizarding population within the next calendar year.

Draco didn't know how much longer he could postpone it but indefinitely seemed like an adequate time frame to shoot for.

"I'm not marrying Pansy," he spat out the name like it was an infection, feeling his shoulders rise and fists instinctively clench. Not now. Not ever. Fuck it, at least not yet. Was she seriously propositioning this over her bloody afternoon tea?

Narcissa rolled her eyes, flipping over the documents right side up before replying. "You know I'm not having that argument right now, Draco." He attempted to read the large black text printed on the parchment while still upside-down. "But no. These aren't betrothal forms –"

"Confidentially agreement?" he recited the document's header aloud before looking back. "Over what? What the hell for?"

More questions, only to go ignored.

Narcissa sighed, a bit too dramatically as she characteristically did. "I've recently gone to go speak with the Deputy Head Auror at the Ministry."

Daphne's father. He immediately knew who she referenced, cringing inwardly at the roundabout mention of his former Slytherin classmate. Thoughts of her always related back to Pansy, and all the unfortunate feelings she brought along with them.

His mother's posture grew straighter than before, an overbearing impression of confidence in her words as she spoke. "And he has agreed to formally request a hearing before Wizengamot in regards to your father's wand getting reinstated."

Draco froze with disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"Completely."

Reinstated? As in, rewarded less than three years after his sentencing? What a whopping heap utter bullshit that sounded like. The likelihood of Voldemort rising from the dead and joining a quartet was greater in possibility. People proclaimed outrage after his father had received such a light punishment originally, (in comparison to others who committed identical crimes) he couldn't imagine the rioting which would occur if that, too, was withdrawn.

"Why would they?"

"Because we have leverage, dear. We have something they want."

He couldn't think of a single item the Ministry would desire from their family other than them locked behind bars. "Leverage? What levera –?" His eyes grew huge after a terrifying realisation crossed over. "No! I am NOT marrying Daphne either, mother – "

"This has NOTHING to do with engagement, Draco. Merlin, you're incognizable sometimes." She hesitated, forcibly relaxing her tone before continuing. "And please... have some sense. You can't seriously believe I would force you to join such a blood-traitorous family like theirs, do you?"

If they had something to gain from it, _yes_ , though he once more held his thoughts. "Then what were you doing there?"

And so, his mother explained. She told him how she'd received an owl from the Ministry, how she'd gone in to speak with Daphne's father and how he'd solicited her for the unusual job. She described what the job entailed and how they'd need to sign the forms. Simple enough.

"That's all?" he questioned after she'd gotten entirely through the explanation. "All we have to do is hide some girl for a few weeks, and then father gets an appeal?" The reasoning behind it still seemed highly suspicious. "Why?"

"We can claim he's been rehabilitated. With this… well, let's just say, we'll have our own leverage to stand behind. And with the Head Auror's testimony, we may have a fighting chance to win."

_To win._

Her words echoed in his mind and immediately Draco wanted nothing more. None of them had adjusted well to his father's condition – witnessing someone who prized their wizarding heritage be reduced down to nothing more than a glorified muggle, relying on the help of house-elves and his wife to do everything that once came effortlessly. Humiliation didn't even begin to describe it.

"Rehabilitated?" Draco absently stabbed at the shunned eggs with his fork. "Why? For opening his home to some stalking victim instead of another fascist leader? Hm, doesn't quite seem enough – "

"The girl is muggle born." This time it was her whose words sounded like they spoke of an infection. "An influential one... If we got her to testify at the hearing, too… Draco, our lives could go back to how they were. Look at me. Do you understand that?"

Draco's eyebrows shot up, stunned by the newly revealed detail. The Ministry wanted _his_ family to protect some pathetic muggle born? As what – a fucking joke? A hilarious punchline crowds laughed at within their undersized cubicles or during a long lunch hour? He couldn't see it being anything else; seeing as he'd doubt the Ministry would even trust his family housing a hippogriff, lest some sodding girl.

" _Whatever_."

His body drew back, maintaining no effort to produce a counterargument, even if he had one. He didn't much give two shits if the entire British Wizarding Ensemble stayed at his home, so long as they stayed the fuck out of his way. And on the other hand, perhaps it would lessen his mother's hoarding attention always glued to _him_ and only him.

Gods, and what if it did work.

Another sigh from Narcissa before the disheartened reply came. "Your constant apathy towards everything is concerning, Draco… You have nothing else to say? _'W_ _hatever'_. That's it? Can you at least pretend to care – pretend like the idea of normalcy might be somewhat pleasant for us?"

Un-fucking-believable.

He was putting up no fight over the insane suggestion, and yet she still managed to find something to critique. There was no winning, instead, only verbalised disappointment. Failure by him to be what they had wanted: a driven, powerful, self-fulfilling son who rose up the family from ashes, and blindly walked throughout life like the War never existed. Like all the things he'd seen and done were just erased from the realm of reality through the deliverance of a pardoning.

Like the past three years weren't a complete and utter shitshow.

' _Can't you at least pretend?_ '

"Sorry, suppose I just learned a long time ago – when it comes to house guests, I have little say in the matter. There's been worse staying here... I don't care what you and father decide to do anymore, honestly. Even if it does blow up in our faces. _Again_."

Her body stiffened as if stung with a hex while blue eyes flashed with hurt. "You know that's not fair – "

"No? Suit yourself – if you want to shelter some mudblood though the pipedream of father's punishment getting revoked, have at it. Enjoy being used at the expense of the Ministry, the lot of them likely laughing behind our backs and hoping we _fail_. As I said before... whatever."

She remained looking at him, silent and appearing to be critical in thought. Contemplating what to say next. Or perhaps scheming her next plan of action to implement.

He took the opportunity to press further, "Have you spoken to father about this? I can't imagine him – "

"Let me deal with him. I'll handle it."

"Fine. Then give me those papers." _So I can fucking leave already,_ he mentally added on. To stand up and run out of the dining room was all he wanted. When she made no apparent motion, Draco took it upon himself, drawing out his wand and _accio-_ ing the documents and quill over to his side.

"Draco! Stop it! Hand those back – "

"WHAT!?"

The print following beneath the introductory paragraph, which he now read clear as day, left his eyes bulging and mouth hanging limp. His eyes read over the same segment of text three separate times before concluding it was real.

_Hermione J. Granger_

Ganger. Granger was the fucking mudblood his mother had every intention to let live with them? Had the entire world lost its mind? Anyone else. Literally _anyone else_.

"You've got to be fucking shitting me – !"

"LANGUAGE, Draco!" cried Narcissa with a disdainful look.

"Are you mental?"

"No. I'm not. Relax, dear... Look, we'll put her up in the East Wing, away from all our rooms. Next to the library. I remember you mentioning before how she enjoys reading. She can seclude herself – "

"NO!" His eyes flamed with rage, voice dripping with sarcasm. "She hates it. Detests it, actually. Perhaps putting her in the dungeons would be more suitable – "

"Draco!"

"Or better yet, a cot set up on the drawing room floor. I'm sure she'd be right at home in there… oh, what happy memories for everyone this will resurrect. Brilliant plan, mother. Things will go swimmingly, no doubt."

"Sweet Salazar, it's two weeks. Don't act like I'm requesting you give up health and home for this... The East Wing Suite will do fine – "

"But that's across the hall from my lab – "

"Splendid. Even better!" Narcissa's retort was quick and heated. "Maybe that'll finally motivate you away from that blasted room and join the likes of the living for a change... As I said, you don't even have to associate with the girl; I'll assign Mipsey to look after her, so we don't have to."

"Ang Ganger?" he questioned. "She's agreed to this?"

"Apparently, she has."

"H-how?" he stammered. "Why? Why would she?"

"I…" the words trailed off before Narcissa shook her head. "Truthfully, I have no idea. Though it doesn't matter, either way, they've asked us to do this... and I've already said yes – "

"YOU'VE WHAT?!"

Anger lit up within his core. Not irritation or indifference, but true, undeniable rage. Irate by the very thought of having forced interaction with the annoying little Gryffindor swot (to whom he'd avoided successfully for years), enraged over how anyone could suggest such a ridiculous notion and fury to how his mother already accepted the ludicrous offer without even asking him first.

Fucking hell, no way. This was not happening. He'd self-induce a month long coma before coinhabiting with Potter's bushy-haired, know-it-all, sidekick. And in what kind of messed up world did _she_ ever agree to such things also?

He fumed as his mother just sat there, rolling her eyes yet again. For the first time in what felt like weeks, anger replaced the looming sense of apathy.

"Just sign the paper, Draco."


	5. Chapter 5

 

Hermione woke with a start.

The cold air inside her flat induced a violent shiver; the spasm mercilessly joining forces with her body's coursing adrenaline and pounding heartbeat to create a triad of discomfort. Checking the digital clock beside her bedside, she groaned with a fluttering recognition of defeat.

_One night_ _of peace_ , that's all she requested.

She had dreamt of her parents again; their brutalised figments being the origin of such crude wakefulness. Each night brought with it progressing levels of terror: dreams with ever increasing violence, and gradually drawn-out endings, hindering her sleep for longer each time.

She partially blamed the letters (for they too had gotten worse), but she knew there was something deeper. Something wrong with _her._ Her mind. Her visions. She thought the nightly incidents had finally reduced themselves – merely denoting into bad dreams versus escalating towards night terrors. It had been years since they'd been this bad.

She would strive to delay such episodes, long enough that her exhausted self could catch a few solid hours of sweet nothingness beforehand. A sleeping draught to attain unconsciousness and a dreamless sleep potion to postpone the inevitable. Postponed but rarely prevented.

It was all bollocks anyhow. She knew her mum and dad were safe; living back in London, with fully restored memories and a false impression that their only daughter was preparing to venture on a business trip to Bulgaria (for a rallying against pureblood supremacy laws) come the following morning.

_What could be farther from the truth?_

She loathed lying, but disclosing current fact was certainly no better option. The truth wasn't one _she_ wanted to admit, nonetheless burden her loved ones with. Especially when she didn't have to.

Harry and Ron were away for Auror training; Ginny was well-preoccupied by her first ever season playing for the Holyhead Harpies. Hermione begot a sense of sadness with the invasive and disheartening thoughts over her closest friends... Was she so preoccupied with work that she forgot to maintain _any_ type of social life? How long could she disappear before anyone truly noticed?

Then again, she technically wasn't disappearing at all, was she? And moreover, even if she wanted to disclose each and every terrifying detail – she couldn't. Not yet anyway, or so the written agreement stated.

She groaned into the too-warm pillowcase, wondering if her fast approaching day would hold deeper despair than the nightmare before it.

A knock at her bedroom door caused Hermione to jolt, instinctively drawing out her wand before logic could overtake reflex. Merlin, would she ever get used to the lack of privacy? Over a week and she still felt like a supervised and incompetent child.

Casting a _Lumos_ charm, the door soon opened after she called out permission to come inside.

"Hey, you alright?" The voice held its own lit wand, illuminating the entryway to her darkened room. "I heard you talking in your sleep again."

"Yeah, I'm fine." Her tone was meek, but the lie flowed out easier than most. Possibly from being told so often.

"Just nervous about tomorrow?"

Hermione looked at the young Auror, wondering if she aimed the question towards them both, considering neither had an easy task come the following day. "No. Not really." Another lie, this one told less confidently. "Are you?"

"A bit... but I guess more so _eager_ , to be honest."

Hermione wished she could say the same.

She considered ushering Estelle to rest from the mind numbing responsibility of staying awake for her flat's overnight watch, though knew better than to suggest it. The witch wouldn't ever hear a word; always insisting, she'd simply sleep while Hermione was at work the following day.

But tomorrow was different...

Tomorrow _she'd_ be her, and Hermione would be somebody else entirely. Someone foolish. Someone helpless enough to require further protection, and senseless enough to take it from a source of prior torment.

Her thoughts were racing and ruthless: how could this happen and what merciless crime was _she_ bearing the punishment of?

And Godric, why did she say yes?

A moment of weakness, she coined it. One incident and her adamant refusal became recanted. Throw right out the window, along with both pride and dwindling intellect; she waved her white flag of relinquished independence through the unfortunate realisation that this may all be bigger than just herself.

"You can tell me anything, you know." Estelle words hung with comfort. "If you want to... I know this can't be easy."

"I'm fine, really." Hermione sat up, crossing her legs and leaning her back against the bed's headboard. "I just want this to be over with." She wanted her life back was more like it. "Two weeks can't go by fast enough..."

Estelle found a comfortable seat at the foot of Hermione's bed. "It'll fly by. And who knows? It might not even take that long."

"Right. If you say so – "

"I know so." Estelle's confidence was contagious, spreading like a disease that Hermione couldn't bear the weight of. "Look… just think of it like going on holiday and staying at a hotel. Might be sort of nice – " 

" _Nice_? This may be a lot of things, but 'nice' is definitely not one of them."

Estelle was persistent, waiving her lit wand and causing light to bounce from wall to ceiling. "It's still a well-deserved break from the shite show you've been dealing with here."

" _We've_ been dealing with. _We_... you got dragged into this mess right along with me. If I'd have known you'd be forced to take on such an insane mission – "

"But I wasn't forced!" Estelle shook her head in protest. "I live for this kinda stuff, Hermione. It's the whole reason I became an Auror in the first place... To catch these crazy bastards and get my adrenaline kick along the way."

Some adrenaline kick.

Hermione recalled the last time she swallowed down the vile taste of Polyjuice potion, remembering the experience with such shuddering clarity like it happened only yesterday. The taste was equally sickening as the individual impersonated. Lucky for Estelle, Hermione imagined portraying herself was far less terrifying than impersonating Bellatrix Lestrange.

_Gods, Bellatrix._

Just the fluttering thought was enough to make her skin crawl like someone had coated it with a thick layer of sludge. But yet here she was: months out from the three-year anniversary and returning to ground zero to reap her dues. Dues owed by the same people who had idly stood by and watched her writer in pain from the Cruciatus Curse.

Dues she could have gone a lifetime without repayment for.

* * *

 

Even walking through the relatively empty Ministry corridors, she felt claustrophobic and trapped; the walls seemed progressively smaller with each corner turned, her daunting and now unavoidable fate fast approaching.

She hadn't slept a wink since the late-night conversation. Or had it been early-morning? By seven o'clock the differences seemed pointless, the hour's all prior blurring together into a blend of restless time.

"And you're absolutely sure that my trunk – "

"Will be picked up and delivered by a house-elf later today – yes." Estelle's pace kept up with Hermione's, the two witches strolling side by side down the Ministry's polished stone floors.

"Seems unnecessary if you ask me."

"We can't have people think you're going on month-long holiday to Belize, can we?"

What a far better solution that would have been.

"Oh! And don't think I'm not gonna check your bags when I get back, to make sure you didn't put that bloody extending charm on them."

"You know I was joking about packing a microwave, right?" Hermione didn't know if it was sheer exhaustion or the utterly insane idea, but she giggled. "Although you must admit, the look on their faces would be – "

"I know you weren't serious about that… I'm just not entirely sure you were joking about smuggling your cat along."

"Crookshanks is – "

"Perfectly fine staying with me."

"He needs – "

"I know, I know! One pouch of food per day – half in the morning, half at night. Water, littler changing charm – yup got it." Estelle was the one to giggle this time. "Honestly Hermione, I helped raise my three younger siblings, and you can't trust me to look after Crookshanks?"

"Of course I do," she said with subdued defeat. "I trust you… it's just having _one_ friendly face might make this all a bit less brutal."

"At least you'll have one _familiar_ face, right?"

Hermione glared, not even finding the strength to see her suggestion as comical. "Right," she spat. "Such a comfort _he'll_ be. I'd probably get more condolence out of a piece of sandpaper – "

"Well thank God for those fifteen different books you packed to keep company, then."

She had gone a tad overboard with the literature selection.

"Yes, thank God."

The pair came to an abrupt halt once reaching the sealed entrance to Greengrass's office. Hermione took in the door's multi-shaded wood staining, and large silver handles, wondering if any other entryway could look so intimidatingly bleak. "He said seven thirty, right?"

"Seven thirty ' _sharp_ ,'" Estelle imitated, lifting an arm to glance at the gold watch framing her wrist. "It's five till now. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she replied, doubting any real way she'd ever be ready to surrender every last shred of pride. _For the greater good, s_ he reiterated, her skin prickling with pushed down anxiety.

The dark-haired witch proceeded inside the office first, Hermione soon following only a single pace behind. "Good morning, sir." Estelle's voice was far too chipper, both for the early hour and everything else brought along with it.

Hermione barely had time to marvel in the magnitude that was the Deputy Auror's headquarters, lined with bookshelves and competing in grandeur with perhaps only the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, before her gaze fell elsewhere entirely.

She marvelled first at Greengrass, sitting at his desk and looking complacent as could be. He and Estelle exchanged pleasantries as Hermione glued her attention towards the other staggering figure: a willowy witch, poised to stunning elegance, and standing beside the Head Auror with tightness etched across her face.

_Well, that's certainly unexpected._

She hardly anticipated ' _escorted to the Manor_ ' directly translating into ' _by Narcissa Malfoy herself_.' A servant or a house-elf seemed more fitting, (more their style) especially seeing as the request was given on such short notice and scheduled inconveniently early.

Hermione tried flashing a look of indifference, overriding her raging reluctance with forced composure. The blonde appeared as if attempting something similar.

_Could a situation be any more horrendously awkward?_

She questioned if either party should spit out introductions, or if unspoken events of the past were enough to place them into the category of 'acquaintances.'

"Miss Granger. Lovely to see you." The man's voice reverberated off the walls of his ornate ministry office, making all three women glue their attention towards him. "How are you this morning, dear?"

"I'm well. Thank you."

"I trust you're all packed and ready, yes?"

A lump lodged in Hermione's throat, causing her to stutter out the answer. "Y-yes. I am... ready."

With that affirmation, Greengrass proceeded to launch into another speech. _Another_ bleeding explanation. He had already stopped by her flat yesterday for the initial debriefing, but apparently, the details needed to be beaten to death once more. Perhaps he just enjoyed hearing himself talk, or perhaps he believed she was completely incompetent and couldn't understand (what Estelle had reasoned was) the simplest of obligations. It seemed straight forward enough – hide, cower in fear, become a helpless bint.

Check, check, and check.

"Do you both fully understand these conditions?"

"Yes."

Oh Godric, he'd stopped talking. Hermione's cheeks turned pink, realising Narcissa had just spoken the one-word agreement and now three sets of eyes directed towards her.

"Yes," echoed Hermione. If signing the documents yesterday hadn't sealed her miserable fate, that answer just had.

"Very well. Then are you're both ready to head out?"

'Head out' like old friends going on a weekend shopping excursion. Hermione grimaced, resenting how well the blonde hid her distaste.

Neither said anything, and Greengrass took their lack of protest as another affirmation. "Wonderful." He proceeded with specifications, "Floo barricades are already in place, but my team won't be fully erecting the anti-apparition wards until later today. You'll be apparating together into the Manor... Now, once the wards are up the only exit will be through the front gates, which will be locked and guarded by an on-duty Auror at all times – "

Narcissa broke in, "Splendid Alabaster, I think we can manage perfectly fine, without you explaining things like you're speaking to a toddler... I'm sure the girl is anxious to get going."

Hermione let out a huff of air through her nostrils which almost resembled something of a laugh. Her face froze once Narcissa's attention shifted.

"Are you ready?"

No. Never. Absolutely not.

Hermione nodded, her attention turning to Estelle who flashed a weak grin. After returning the smile, the young Auror pulled Hermione into a goodbye hug before she could object.

"I'll see you soon, alright?"

"Right. Stay safe," muttered Hermione.

"I always do," Estelle confirmed, whispering the next bit so no one else could hear. " _Stay sane_."

"Too late."

* * *

 

The powerful pull of disapparation toward a foreign setting vibrated Hermione's insides, her body zooming through blackness before stumbling back into transparency. A numb wave of sickness flashed over, be it from the transportation mechanism or the destination itself, she was unaware. She searched for solid ground, finding it atop plush wool carpet beneath her canvas shoes. Her mind had yet to catch up.

_Where am I? There's no way..._

A shallow breath caught as she examined her surroundings. Even more unbelievable than side-by-side apparition with Narcissa Malfoy, was the spot in which the woman had landed them. Far away from the Ministry office, the two witches stood centrally inside a much different room; though Hermione wasn't sure if ' _room_ ' even held up as an accurate depiction of the space they presently occupied.

She took a sharp inhale, trying to breathe in the overload of stimulus, and breath out the overwhelming worry. This was fine. This wasn't mental.

_This was happening._

"This is where you'll be staying for the time being." Narcissa's icy words managed to snap Hermione back into alertness. "A full tour of the home can be...arranged, later on, if you'd so choose. But I assumed bringing you here directly would pose most prudent for now."

_As to avoid horrendous flashbacks_ , she could only assume herself.

"I – yes," choked Hermione, the woman's gaze pricking at her skin like needles. She didn't know why she said it, but the sentiments flowed out before modifying them. "Thank you… for that."

Hermione successfully avoided gawking at the furnished chamber, but resisting a stolen glance around was nearly impossible.

How could it be the same house she'd stepped foot in years before? She'd expected differences, yes, but nothing like this. Everything looked so incredibly… pleasant. Stunning and warm, the exact opposite of everything else she remembered.

No bleakness, no overwhelming smell of dark magic. Just sunlight streaming in through a massive window connecting to an oversized seat beside it; the illuminating rays cast upon a canopied bed looking large enough to sleep an entire Quidditch team. A sitting area occupied the opposite side to where they stood, with a Chesterfield sofa and two matching chairs that looked more expensive than what Hermione paid in a year's rent.

White plush carpet, a beautiful brick hearth, and a vanity large enough for a mountain troll momentarily stole Hermione's breath, the crashing awareness of where she was (and why) soon bringing her senses back.

"Mipsey!"

She was taken aback by Narcissa's booming call, the _pop_ of apparition bringing with it the emergence of a small female house-elf. The creature stood wide-eyed, gazing up toward its beckoner.

_Disgusting:_ trained to come on command like some breed of well-trained hounds. The practice curdled her stomach, but she restrained from vocalising any discontent.

"Yes madam?" The house-elf bowed, its dress a stereotypical and ghastly pillowcase-like ensemble. "How can Mipsey be of service? Oh – hello..." The elf turned abruptly, spotting Hermione from behind before looking back at the blonde questioningly. "This the one you spoke of Mistress Malfoy?"

"She is."

"Hi." She took it upon herself to form an abrupt greeting, bending down to the creature's level and extending out a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mipsey. I'm Hermione."

The elf's round orbs grew enormous, seemingly shocked by such unusual salutation. "The pleasure is all Mipsey's, miss."

Narcissa frowned, notably struggling to conceal her disapproval. "She will be yours throughout the duration of your stay." The information was spoken more at Hermione than to her, through clenched teeth and a disheartened scowl.

"Mine?" Just what she didn't want – a personalised slave to wait on her hand and foot. More tacks added to the board of ' _why this_ _goes_ _against_ _everything I believe in.'_

"All you have to do it call out her name, and she'll apparate to wherever you are. She'll bring up your meals. Three times a day as standard, but if you need more just send her down to the kitchens with the request... Once the wards are up, the only apparition throughout the house can be done by house elves...As you likely already know."

"Right." She cringed, the implication reminding her of Dobby and his ability to apparate inside the dungeons of the Manor when Harry and Ron couldn't.

Dobby. Bellatrix. Harry and Ron... they'd think she'd blown a gasket if they found out where she was.

Had she?

"I'll leave you to get settled, then." Narcissa made her way over to the door, turning back with a smile that looked as if two strings tied on either end forced up the corners of her mouth. The next words came through equally as forced.

"Make yourself at home."


	6. Self-Guided Tours

 

Day one.

This wasn't so terrible.

_It still hasn't sunk in yet_ ; her thoughts whispered to burst the illusionary bubble of relief.

Still shell-shocked over the method utilised regarding her transport there, Hermione was unaware of whether to be thankful for such arrival or feel somewhat jilted.

It wasn't as if she anticipated trumpets and a welcoming committee. And there was a particular benefit to not being dragged through the front gates (of equivalent hell) like a prisoner approaching their imminent doom. No awkward encounter with the male members of the household, no walking past the drawing room.

_No talk over how utterly barmy this all is._

Now alone, Hermione's mind couldn't maintain a stillness. Her eyes glanced around the room more times in a minute than breaths were taken, feasting hungrily on the surrounding sights with a newly heightened interest. Fascinating artwork hung from nearly every wall, the furniture alone looking like each piece deserved its own segment in a home and gardens magazine. Most stunning of all was the sunlit vision which lay behind a partially cloaked window seat: an abnormally blue sky alongside a distant landscape of rolling hills and cascading treetops.

Another set of long drapes soon caught her attention. After sauntering across the carpet, Hermione drew back one panel of heavy material, sunlight pooling inside to further brighten the room.

Without the barricade of drapery, she uncovered a set of French doors leading straight out to a high-level, circular balcony; hovering above what appeared to be the mansion's backyard (if you could truly call it that).

Blinking to adjust her pupils, Hermione took in the scenery below. Without thinking, she grasped a hold of one door handle, thoroughly surprised that the knob gave way with ease in response to her forward press. Pushing open the entrance, a cool gust of air rushed inside to accompany the former sunshine now filling the warm room.

_Mother of Merlin._

She stepped out into the cold and misleading daylight, doing a full 180 with her head and gawking like a young child during their first trip inside a candy store. Everything within view was jaw dropping – the most beautiful panorama she'd ever seen.

_No!_

She shook off the fleeting idea. That wasn't what she was there for; she wasn't there to ogle and pine over some pretty sceneries like a tourist on holiday.

Hermione observed her current surroundings with a forced sense of indifference; fighting off any crept-up feelings of awe or appreciation. She refused to be impressed with undeserved wealth, snubbing each and every monetary exhibition her eyes laid upon, and adamantly deciding not to be overwhelmed by any of it.

Not by the professional sized Quidditch pitch. Or by the crystal clear lake with sunbeams dancing atop its sparkling surface. Certainly, not by the shades of violet, gold, or crimson that peaked through a well-groomed garden, fully equipped with a running cascade comparable in sheer size with the Trevi Fountain itself.

No, none of it looked even remotely appealing. None of it was deserved, (nonetheless appreciated) by the Malfoys anyhow.

The only thing which Hermione adored from the entire experience was a promise of freedom. Freedom away from the constant worry over what could be lurking around the corner; freedom from questioning who would be hurt next.

She had already lived through those terrors once in her lifetime – she refused to let them continue on for a second go around.

"Hello Miss," said a doting voice from inside, Hermione twirling around to face the speaker. "Please excuse Mipsey's interruption, but Mipsey brought breakfast for Miss Hermione Granger."

_Breakfast?_

The elf hadn't even been gone a full ten minutes, returning now with an aromatic round-top serving dish cradled in its arms. Hermione smiled. She stepped back inside the suite, watching as the creature walked towards a mahogany table within the quarter's adjoining sitting area (apparently doubling as a makeshift dining room, too).

"Thank you." Hermione glanced at the covered dish, wondering if anything seemed less appealing than going through the motions of eating right then. Consuming food that wasn't her own, in a room that wasn't familiar. And Merlin, it was still so bloody early. "And you can call me Hermione," she kindly suggested. "If you'd like, that is."

"Of course." The young house-elf gestured over towards the French doors. "Would Miss Hermione like a tour? Mipsey was instructed to serve Miss Hermione and show her the grounds if she so wished."

Serve? Oh bollocks, if she had any appetite left it would have been tossed straight over that adjoining balcony in seconds.

"Oh, no… later, maybe." _Maybe never_ , she mused to herself. "Thank you for the food, Mipsey. It smells delicious."

The words stunned the small creature, confirmed through her newly widened gaze. "Oh, it's Mipsey's pleasure. Would Miss Hermione prefer eating downstairs in the dining hall or up in her room – ?"

"Here is lovely," she assured. "Thank you again."

"Miss Hermione is very much welcome."

Once the elf dismissed herself, Hermione glimpsed towards a clock in one corner and inwardly groaned at the numbers its hands pointed at. She hadn't even been there a full thirty minutes yet! She had an entire day to push through.

Maybe this was terrible, after all.

Indeed, nothing could be worse than staying at the home of people who likely (at one point or another) wished you dead. Her prior optimism was soon gone, chucked aside and leaving her with nothing left but cynical glumness.

Rubbish. Everything was rubbish. Her life was now equivalent to that of a trash can, and she could only imagine that the Malfoy's would readily agree with such comparisons.

_Stop basking in self-pity_ , her logic commanded.

She attempted to oblige, Hermione's attention then shifting to the spacious canopied bed a mere moment later. With tightly tucked in plush linens and a sheer white awning pulled back at all four corners, the luxurious spread seduced her over with one glimpse towards its alluring frame.

Not like she had any better ways to spend her time. Without hesitation, she accepted the bed's invite; flinging her body forward, and not caring enough to remove her jacket or shoes before jumping. The soft mattress cradled her body with ease, Hermione landing directly in the middle without so much as a creak or thud out of the wooden frame. Running both fists through her flung back hair, she allowed herself a groan of misery.

This was her life now. This was what she had been reduced to. _This is what happens when worry overrides logic._ And Merlin, she had never wanted hers to.

Insanity had spoken, and she had answered its deluded call.

But hell, at least the bed was comfortable. At least her room was private. And at least she could come up with a thousand different justifications to why she was there, though none of which made her feel any better.

The only comforts she now felt came from the cloud-like mattress she lay atop; sleepless hours from the night prior violently uniting as she lay there, unable to move. Stunned. At a loss for words and with a lack of motivation to fight her screaming conscious. Hermione laid there, eyelids heavy and fluttering closed.

Her thoughts dwindled, worry and apprehension trickling away slowly until finally, a peaceful nothingness swept over.

* * *

 

"WHAT?! She's already here? Right now – "

"I told you it would be sometime this week, Draco. Don't act so awestruck."

"Yes, ' _this week'..._ But you neglected to mention how that apparently meant less than two days. Why didn't you tell me earlier – "

"The owl came late last night. I went to retrieve her up from the Ministry earlier today – "

"Without telling me!?" Draco questioned loudly, earning him more than a few dodgy glares from the portraits surrounding them within the sitting room. "Why?"

"Perhaps if you hadn't locked yourself up all morning, you would have known sooner, dear."

He ignored her condescending rebuttal. "I'm serious, mother. The fact that you believe this _isn't_ absolute lunacy is beyond me... But to bring her in without so much as a warning – "

"Fine. I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier to you, darling. Happy?"

"No."

"She doesn't want this any more than we do, you know." Blue eyes fastening to his grey ones, she continued, "And need I remind you yet again of how valuable this task may be, Draco?"

"No, I think you've made your point wonderfully clear the first twenty times over. Thanks, though."

She sighed, standing up from her chair. "Is it really so difficult to pretend that she isn't here? To just ignore her?"

He quipped back with drenched sarcasm, "Right. How bloody easy that'll be."

"Perhaps it will. Over three hours it's been already, and I don't think she's left her chamber the entire time… This may be easier than we initially thought, really." With a shrug of her shoulders, she proposed further lunacy, "The girl seems low maintenance enough."

_Her chamber_. What could possibly sound more disgustingly vile than the implication of Granger having a spot within his home? "Until she bores and starts snooping around like an unattended toddler. Did she say anything else? When you brought her here –"

"No." Narcissa shot back a characteristic eye roll. "Not a word worth mentioning. Tell me, did you have any other questions spanning beyond the realm of complaints?"

Draco looked down at the floor, mumbling his response. "No."

"Very well then. I'll be in the Parlour if you need me. It's a beautiful day outside, you know." She turned to leave, blonde hair flowing behind her as she went. "You should go see for yourself."

Right – a stroll through the garden could solve all world problems in his mother's eyes.

Draco contemplated his options. Sulk back upstairs to his room, (which would prove to be the reasonable and most obvious choice) or travel in the opposite direction and go cordially welcome their new house guest? Formally and personally. After all, it would be bad manners to ignore a visitor; and a terrible host he was not.

Besides, he certainly wasn't going to stay cooped up in hiding for days on end. Especially inside _his_ own home.

Draco's decision was quickly made, the impulses leading him forward without any forethought. Barreling towards the eastward staircase, he climbed all four stories and wound around multiple twisting corners before finally arriving at the master-sized suite.

He soon stood head-on with the closed oak door, contemplating what in the hell he should proceed with.

Knock? Walk right on in? Leave? The latter was clearly the most logical, but also the least likely. He had to announce his presence somehow, ensuring that she knew, clearly, he wasn't the slightest bit unnerved by her. By everything. Her being there, invading on his life ( _his_ home) without so much as a comment exchanged between either of them.

No, avoidance would be giving her all the power, making it seem like he was completely complacent with such a ghastly arrangement.

Which of course, he wasn't.

Lifting his hand, he poised it to knock on the closed entryway, stopping before his knuckle made contact with the wood finish.

Why should he? This was his residence. His life… Her invasion, not his.

She was probably nose-deep in some ridiculous History of Magic Encyclopedia. Or writing to the minister himself, demanding the immediate reform of Squib support groups. A good surprise interruption never hurt anyone, and the look on her face would likely be priceless.

Without further consideration, Draco swung open the door, waltzing inside the room with argumentative sentiments already poised and ready on his tongue. Instead of announcing his impending presence or vocalising his ridicules, Draco's eyebrows shot up before any words were articulated. He took a second to process the scene sprawled out before him. (Or better yet, the person sprawled out before him).

_What the –_

Draco stopped dead in his tracks, a quiet and irksome noise causing his attention to hone towards the unmoving figure.

Hermione fucking Granger: the wizarding world's lord and saviour, was _snoring_. Light, breathy wheezes coming from the opposing side to where Draco now stood.

Sweet Salazar, who would have guessed? Apparently, the queen of saving Potter's neck was also the queen of napping during the middle of the afternoon. His eyes narrowed, approaching the bed where she lay fast asleep, passed out beyond any reasonable recognition.

He scoffed silently at her appearance, not sure whether to laugh or yell. She looked like a heaping disaster of catastrophic proportions: her body laying atop tucked-in blankets, ugly muggle shoes still laced, and with her head not even resting on a single pillow for support. Messy flyaways stuck out in every direction, forming what resembled a bird's nest more so than human hair.

He nearly screamed out a condescending question that was sure to wake her.

But truthfully _, had she been raised in a bloody barn?_

He'd have to check for a pulse if it wasn't for the silver chain she wore around her neck, rising up and down to a melody of unpleasant noises exiting her slightly parted lips. Draco opened his own mouth to loudly interrupt her ungraceful midday slumber, but no sounds came out. Nothing but wordless space and bothersome snores filled the room.

This was becoming one of his lesser thought-out schemes.

Draco hadn't seen or spoken to the wench in over two years, and her presence brought back more unsettling recollections than he imagined beneficial for anyone's functional sanity. Seeing her was like dipping into a Pensieve, equipped with every crooked and skewed memory that he'd rather not relive. Not then, not ever.

Seeing her sleeping there, so peaceful and tranquil, like there wasn't a fucking care in the world, made him want to retch all over the speckles floor.

And of course, there wasn't a care in the world. Not on her end, anyway. Not for Hermione goodie-two-shoes Granger. Everyone bloody adored her; apparently, so much she now needed protection from all that sodding adoration.

She had been graced with everything, and he with nothing. How nice it must be, to not have people cringe away. How pleasant it must feel, to not hear the whispers of disdain. How lovely everything must look, in a world that adores everything you've ever done.

His thoughts soon turned to anger, pent up and buried deep.

_Fuck her._

Fuck her and fuck everything she had ever represented. Just seeing the ex-Gryffindor made him seethe with annoyance. He didn't care about making proclamations about his domain anymore, fuck it to hell.

She didn't deserve his breath.

On his way out, Draco forcefully slammed her door with a reverberating crash, smirking his entire walk down the east hallway and back in the direction of his bedroom.

There were better ways to spend his time than to goad Granger like he was a thoughtless third-year again. As appealing as those memories might be, he knew better than to waste precious energy on something so meaningless and trivial.

Something like her.

* * *

 

Hermione jolted awake.

Squinting her eyes at the brightness, she hazily looked around the still and undisturbed space. Why was it so light outside? Had she slept through her alarm? Where was she?

The pleasantries of ignorance hardly lasted a nanosecond before crashing reality flooded back in. Hermione groaned, rolling over and stretching to regain blood flow in her stiff limbs. How strange. She must have dozed off for a few minu –

_HOURS?!_

She gawked over at the grandfather clock standing tall in one corner. How the hell had she fallen asleep for nearly _four hours?_ Was she drugged? Did she toss back a sleeping draught without remembering? Had she eaten breakfast laced with poison meant to induce unconsciousness for two straight weeks?

Seemed like a trademark Malfoy move, if you asked her.

No, no, that was the insanity speaking again.

She hadn't eaten a single thing since arriving there, proved soon by a low grumble offered up by her empty stomach. Everything was normal… well as normal as could be, all things considering.

Maybe if Hermione's current sleep bankruptcy didn't outshine the national debt, she wouldn't have fallen asleep like a grandmother sitting in her rocking chair.

Deciding against continued laziness, Hermione finally unglued herself from the intoxicating bed. She noted her trunk laying atop sofa cushions within the adjoining lounge, along with a second serving platter carrying (what she assumed was) lunch beside it. Both must have arrived while she was sleeping, wondering if it was their delivery which startled her awake or just another bad dream that she couldn't remember.

Walking over to the couch, she allowed her fingers to trace over the expensive leather, still examining everything which the new area visually had to offer. Hues of gold, silver and royal blue splattered between its edges, fitting together with effortless congruence as if designed for expectant royalty.

Hermione soon discovered that the adjoining bathroom held equal amounts of luxury; fully equipped with a white stone bathing pool, and possibly the largest marble sink she'd ever beheld.

Before long, she strolled over to her newly delivered trunk – pulling out a long novel from underneath her folded pile of clothing and toiletries.

She needed something to get her mind off things. A recently published historical fiction was an obvious choice; one of her must-reads that she knew would pull her in and not let go for dear life. She needed that right then.

Something else which pulled Hermione in was the pillow-toped alcove within one corner of the chamber. Her legs led directly to the white windowsill with an adjoining seat, Hermione plopping down and swinging her feet up to press against its cushions, sunlight decorating her opened page.

Not even the wayward situation could distract away from such obvious appeal.

* * *

 

Apparently, the deposit into her sleep-bank from earlier that day resulted in an accidental mischarge of exponentially high interest. Interest paid in the form of inevitable tossing and turning and useless, wandering thoughts.

She couldn't see the time, but sometime after one in the morning felt like a safe guess.

How in Merlin's name could she have forgotten to pack an ample supply of sleeping draught? Out of all the things to overlook! Her toothbrush would have been a better item to neglect; she'd rather use toothpaste smeared across her index finger for mornings on end than never get any meaningful rest.

Up until trying to fall asleep, her day had been surprisingly fine. Lacking in excitement or human interaction of any sorts, but far better than she originally imagined forced isolation to be.

A part of her had almost anticipated Draco Malfoy himself to barge through the sealed door at any moment (though that specific apprehension was beyond pointless). There were probably few people in the world he'd rather see less than her – and hell, she didn't even know if he lived with his parents still. She knew little regarding the Malfoy's current affairs and keeping it that way didn't seem like a terrible plan of action throughout this whole ordeal.

Consumed by darkness and now laying in the somehow _creepier_ room, she actually wished her meal from earlier _had_ been spiked. Either out of cold-blooded, murderous intent or to induce a long-term slumber; for both would put Hermione out of the current misery inflicted.

Her mind drifted, thoughts of Harry and Ron fluttering in and clouding her already deteriorating mental condition.

Gods help her – she had utterly messed up. Agreeing to stay in a former Death Eater refugee camp was likely the least of her blunders.

No, sleeping with Ron over the Christmas holidays may well take the cake on that one. (Merlin, perhaps Estelle had been right about her exaggerated dramatics during late hours of the night). Pre-bedtime thoughts would be the death of her.

And yet they always prevailed.

Hermione allowed foolish and petty snippets of thought to take over, deflecting her worries from the current concern of sleeplessness.

_Not like fighting it will help._

It wasn't that she regretted the sex itself, per se. The experience was as fun and natural as it had always been, but falling into the common trope of sleeping with an ex certainly did not bode well for the whole "we're so much better as friends, Ron" approach she was trying to take.

_How stupidly pathetic._

Apparently, she had been brooding and extra lonely during that holiday season, (Harry and Ginny announcing their engagement likely not helping matters) finding longstanding comfort by crawling in between Ron's prehistoric Chudley Cannons bedsheets.

_Thinking of this is not helping..._

But bollocks, they had broken up almost a year ago! Did he seriously expect all their problems to go away through one mildly intoxicated shag?

_What if they could?_

She knew Ron loved her, and she cared so bloody much for him, too. Maybe that was enough. After all, she wouldn't just go and sleep with someone she didn't still have feelings for. He was so incredible sometimes – her best friend and the one and only love she'd ever known. How amazing would it be to wear both of those titles around indefinitely –

Hermione nearly leapt out of bed.

_WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!_

A noise _._

"Shite," she cursed into the darkness, trying desperately to steady her racing heartbeat.

A noise that came from outside her room; something crashing down, or maybe just creaking floorboards...

Footsteps? No, she hadn't heard footsteps all day.

Hermione hadn't heard _anything_ all day. Not a peep.

_Nothing is out there, relax._

At most, it was probably just a house-elf doing its inhumanely inflicted nightly cleaning list or something. Nothing to worry about. Just something she needed to ignore –

_THERE IT IS AGAIN!_

Hermione pulled the covers tightly around her body.

_Yes, definitely a house-elf. Only a house-elf. Not some evil spirits of the people who were potentially murdered in this home – coming out to seek revenge on any available souls._

Merin, she needed help. Three-hundred hours of sleep and _help_. She was losing it.

Still… it couldn't hurt to simply _check_. Just a peek outside her door. Just to be absolutely confident there wasn't anything lurking around.

_What could possibly be lurking around?_

She had to find out.

With a glowing-tip to her wand and a disregarded nagging sense that this was a terrible idea, she stood up from the warmth of her blankets. After walking to the door, she pushed it open, illuminating the outside hallway with her Lumos charm and looking around.

Nothing.

_See? Nothing._

There was only darkness.

All which predominated from outside the boundary of her bedroom was a wide hallway that looked scattered with different decorative accents, less and less threatening the more she carefully examined each one of them. She stared down the corridor, a bit longer than necessary; yet again mesmerised by the fact that anyone truly lived in a home like this.

"HEY! Stop shining that thing in our faces, witch."

She nearly dropped her poised wand, gasping with surprise at the sudden huff of a female voice. Shining her light over to where it originated, she lit up a portrait of four women, grumbling over towards her with obvious displeasure.

"Sorry," whispered Hermione, removing herself from the door frame and standing head on with the canvas.

"She's the mudblood," hissed one of the painted figures.

"Her?" asked a second.

"No kidding. You sure?"

"Yes, _her_. I'm sure." Said the first woman.

"What mudblood?" said a fourth female in the portrait.

"Honestly, Marinette, do you ever listen to a thing we say?"

"Do you ever say anything worth listening to?"

Hermione assumed the correct answer was no. How nice to see, the Malfoy's artworks shared equally in their medieval viewpoints and derogatory slander. It likely wasn't a coincidence that no speaking portraits occupied the room she was staying within.

"Excuse me," she interrupted before the conversation could escalate. "Just curious, did any of you hear a noise just now?"

The four women in the portrait glared down at her in a scary synchronisation. "We were all sleeping until you so _rudely_ woke us up."

"So that's a no?" she questioned.

"Check down the hallway," one of the women piped up. "Sometimes there's a house-elf that just adores noisy manual labor at this time of night. And tell him to bloody well shut up, if so! He never listens to us. We need sleep too, ya know!"

Ah, of course, just as she'd suspected. Nothing more than a harmless nightly cleaning procedure."Thank you," she said. "I'll be sure to relay the message."

Hermione didn't know what inhuman force possessed her into following instructions from some bloody portrait, but for one bad reason or another, her feet moved towards the direction the shrill woman had gestured. Possibly out of curiosity. Possibly from mental instability.

Either way, there she was. With interest perked at the discovery of two utterly massive and hinged doors which she now stood before, detailed woodwork coating their surfaces.

What could the entrance possibly be? She supposed she could ask the now distant and bickering painting but decided against it.

She pondered silently to herself, wondering what other mysterious rooms existed besides that one. Probably loads.

She had to admit: the artworks decorating the length of each hallway was fascinating. Her eyes found something different to look at with each progressing step. Unlit torches, beautifully framed portraits – both moving and unmoving – decorative hangings, crests, everything you could imagine filled up the home's tasteful décor. It was enthralling.

She almost wished she had taken Mipsey up on that tour she'd offered to give earlier. There was undoubtedly heaps of thought-provoking history just begging to be appreciated by _someone_ throughout the residency.

_A tour?_

That was it! Why hadn't she thought of it before?

She needed a good stroll to tire herself out before bed, especially after sitting in that damn room all day. Late night walks around the castle had always worked when she was restless back at Hogwarts; she assumed the concept was relatively similar.

And with it being so late, she'd hardly risk uncomfortable interaction with any (now sleeping) household members. It was the perfect time to explore new territory, alone and completely unseen.

Hermione proceeded forward. After walking down the twisting corridor for a few moments, her pace sped up.

The house was bloody massive.

She descended two flights of stairs, walking down another hallway, and turning more twisting corners as they readily appeared.

The entire endeavour was oddly thrilling. She'd stop every so often, admire a painting, or a decorative rug (one of them running the entire length of one hallway like a bleeding catwalk). Her wand didn't illuminate everything, but enough that she could get a firm idea of what surrounded her.

Most rooms were closed, but the few that weren't, she would peek her wand inside and try to discern what their exact function was.

_It isn't snooping if the doors are open, right?_

The majority looked like guest rooms, one perhaps was a parlour, and the last looked like an office of some sort.

Who could possibly utilise all this space? It seemed incredibly wasteful. So many rooms, so few occupants.

How many stories were there anyway? Four? Three? Bollocks, she didn't know. The one and only time she'd seen the home from the outside, she'd been a tad too preoccupied to notice.

Had she passed that painting already?

_No, it just looks familiar._

Weirdly similar, with the same image of a snoring Wizard laying atop a plush red chair.

She needed to get back upstairs. But was her room on the second or third floor? No, definitely the fourth. The fourth floor, right, of course. She knew that.

Bollocks, who needed four bleeding levels inside their home anyway? How unnecessary.

She was back at the large catwalk rug again, walking down the hallway with forcibly quiet footfalls.

_How?_

Did she travel in one big circle? No, that would be mental. It must be the same rug, just in two different places.

_Hopefully_.

Hermione shook off the turbulent thoughts, deciding she had done quite enough thoughtless exploring for one night.

Self-guided tours were a far better idea during the daytime, even with the increased risk of being seen by her unwelcoming hosts.

Scurrying up a familiar looking staircase, she turned right on impulse. It had to be the way back; she would bet galleons on it.

_So why does this all look entirely new?_

Yeah, no, she was wrong. Going left was the correct way; she should have bloody known. But hell, everything in that direction looked completely new also!

There was clearly something about the home's layout which she was missing.

_How did this happen?_

She wasn't _lost_. No, just a tad turned around was all. How difficult could finding her way back really be? It was only a house, for Christ sake. It was only a couple of staircases that she had walked down –

_Godric, have mercy_.

Hermione stopped almost immediately, holding her breath, and trying to ignore the wave of panic which quickly pooled within. The sole sound which she heard being that of her heartbeat reverberating inside her eardrums.

Her heartbeat.

_And footsteps._


	7. Unexpected Findings

_Footsteps_.

Light and barely audible, growing louder with each passing shuffle against the distant flooring. Hermione once more maintained the faintest flicker of hope that it was just a house-elf scurrying around; manic to fulfil some nocturnal cleaning habit before the dawn broke. Unfortunately, unless the creature was also somehow crossbred with a giant, there was no plausible way the heavy and impending treads originated from a house-elf's small frame.

Hermione battled her impulse to flee. It was tempting. The idea of running down the hallway, full speed ahead; dashing into the nearest unlocked room, and hiding in there until the person passed. That would certainly be the easiest tactic to follow through with. Easiest. Completely harmless.

_Most cowardly._

And a coward she was not.

Hermione willed herself to ignore the gutless impulse, locking her knees and standing tall with her wand aimed forward. She illuminated the same direction in which the clamour of footfalls had arisen, convincing herself that whosoever's they were, she was armed and prepared for anything.

_Anyone_.

She summoned what little pride she had left to hang from, swallowing down a lump lodged in her throat before shakily cutting through the eerie silence.

"Hello?"

She swore the advancement momentarily halted, but couldn't quite be certain – what with it also picking up a subsequently doubled speed in response to her greeting. The sounds fell in tune with her pulse, soon drowning out the vibration of her racing heartbeat and shifting focus elsewhere.

Louder. Closer. So bloody close now.

"Hello?" She faked more confidence the second time around but still felt like a wobbly wuss while standing there, petrified and motionless. "Who's there?"

Nothing.

The only reply was the iridescence of light hitting against a framed painting at the end of the hallway, glowing against its vivid watercolours as if heeding a flaming caution. A silent and now _useless_ warning that she should have heeded to moments earlier – for by then, it was far too late to scurry away and hide.

She attempted one last time, "Hello – "

"Are you lost or something?"

Hemione gasped out of reflex, jumping back a few paces and stumbling in the process like she'd just been smacked with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. She recognised the voice before seeing whose face it belonged to; a drawl so condescending and haughty there was no mistaking its origin.

A tall figure emerged, immediately following the beam of light and the belittling question, to face head-on with her staggering mess of a stance. Despite the initial clutch of panic, Hermione allowed herself a rugged exhale of breath, relief somehow stemming from the familiar face which scowled down and across the hallway from her.

She commanded her uneven lungfuls to steady themselves, hoping the nervous trembling of her hand wasn't noticeable through bouncing glimmers of light. "Oh." The prior (though admittedly, _accurate_ ) implication was ignored – Hermione halting a standoffish distance back as the glow from her wand morphed together with his. "…it's only you."

" _Only you_?" Her opening words echoed throughout the empty corridor. "Who the hell else were you expecting?"

"No one!" She frowned, lowering her wand to a more sociable stance. "I mean – no one in particular. You didn't say anything at first, how was I supposed to know?"

Godric, give her patience.

Who _had_ she been expecting to make Draco bloody Malfoy seem like the positive alternative? The breath of relief was clearly made in premature haste. She once more resisted the urge to bolt, attempting a face of utter indifference in response to his presence. He, in contrast, hid nothing; visibility both suspicious and doubtful of her sudden appearance, his eyebrows looking as if they were trying to mingle with his hairline by just how high they shot up.

"Looking for something, Granger?"

"I, er – _no,"_ Hermione protested, feeling her cheeks flame. "Of course not."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really..." She deflected the subject away from herself, "Merlin, what are you doing up at this hour?"

"Me?!" Draco scowled, eyeing her as if sizing up a competitor. "You're asking me what _I'm_ doing?"

She hadn't meant the question to come out so rigid, or even at all for that matter, but there was certainly no going back now. "That is what I just said, isn't it?" She internally cringed at her even harsher enquiry. _Definitely no going back._

Draco took a few steps forward. "You mean other than scaring the piss out of you?"

She scowled at his harshness, questioning if this was how Draco Malfoy began every conversation he ever engaged in. "I wasn't scared!"

"You nearly leapt out of your skin once I turned the corner..."

"Because you startled me! Creeping up like that. Of course, I jumped!"

"Hm," Draco mused, his gaze glued to her as she attempted to break away eye contact. "And here I was – thinking Gryffindors were supposed to be brave... How unfitting, Granger."

"Oh, how original." She didn't even attempt to hide her eye roll at his backhanded comment. "And here _I_ was hoping you may have actually matured past making petty, house-rivalry references. Suppose that makes both of us wrong." Sarcasm coated her words as she turned to leave. "So lovely to see you, by the way... a pleasure as always. I'll just be going now – "

"What the fuck were you doing out here?" Draco demanded, Hermione not even making it two steps in the opposite direction before her head snapped back around. "First night, and you're already snooping around in places where you shouldn't be? Talk about not maturing – you're still nosy as ever, I see."

"I beg your pardon – "

"Meandering around like the meddlesome swot you've always been," he proclaimed, paying no regard to her clenched jaw or narrowed eyes. "Tell me, do Muggles find it perfectly couth to wander a stranger's home without their permission? Or is that still considered _rude_ , even by their pathetically low standards?"

Godric, nevermind. There wasn't nearly enough patience in the world.

Whatever hopeful prospect regarding the boy outgrowing his childish antics was soon dissolved through the condescending tone shot her way; the tenor almost like a nostalgic memory which could transport her back to Hogwarts in an instant. Being mocked by the exact same boy, with the exact same ridicules – only difference now being in a slightly deeper voice.

She smiled, somehow finding humour in the notion. "Oh, Merlin... seriously, Malfoy? You really haven't changed a bit, have you? _"_

"Neither have you, apparently," said Draco. "Thank heavens your head was already so overinflated to begin with. No hero complex could have possibly stood a chance to surpass your already existing ego."

"You would know all about overinflated egos. Quite the expert, if I remember correctly."

She remembered perfectly. Almost too well.

Draco glared, shooting her a face of contempt that was equally as nostalgic as his arrogant tone.

Her hope still maintained fleeting optimism: with everything they'd both endured, at the very least, he would stop looking at her like _that_. Like she was some piece of filth beneath his well-polished dress shoes. Although granted, no shoes were even worn tonight by the ex-Slytherin; dressed in more casual clothing than he stereotypically sported, with blond hair loosely fringed and slightly longer than it once was – he stood before her outwardly _looking_ somewhat different.

Of course, Hermione stood relatively in the same position; clad in only a loose-fitted shirt and bright blue pyjama bottoms. _With bloody penguins and snowflakes on them,_ she grimaced after remembering her unfortunate choice of wardrobe made earlier.

Shockingly, he made no mention regarding her disheveled appearance or unfashionable apparel.

"You still haven't answered the question, Granger."

Hermione conceded, "I couldn't sleep. I needed to stretch my legs out for a second, is that a crime?" She deemed it needless to mention getting turned around and wandering in circles like a lost first year for ten minutes. "And good lord – I should be asking you the same thing! What are you doing awake!? It's nearly two in the morning –"

"So? This is my house... need I remind you?"

"Oh, sorry. I just assumed there's some nightly curfew around here that I'm unaware of."

"For you, yes." Dimmed lighting and spaced distance between the pair still couldn't hide a telling smirk which crossed over his pursed lips. "Although, certainly, you see nothing wrong with parading the halls of a place which you're staying guest in – "

"Staying _guest_ in?" she repeated the words with no control over their cynical tone. Merlin, this conversation was travelling in more circles than she'd been wandering in earlier.

"Yes, a _guest_ – and a rather ungrateful one at that."

"And how did you draw that conclusion? Because you didn't walk up and find me kissing the floors with gratitude?"

"No. But the least you can do is say thank you, for fuck's sake. For letting you stay here – "

"For LETTING me?!" That was the final straw.

"Yes... fucking hell, are you deaf or just a bloody parrot?"

"Oh, how rich. If that isn't the biggest load of codswallop I've ever heard, _ferret_... don't stand there and pretend like you're doing _me_ any favours!"

"Ah, and the ungratefulness speaks once more."

"Spare me," Hermione spat, flailing her arms out in exasperation. "I'm not a sodding idiot, alright? I know if it weren't for that clause in your family's war reparations, your lot wouldn't even think twice – "

"What did you just say?"

Oh no… She wasn't supposed to know about that part, nonetheless, mention anything regarding it. The words had slipped out without consideration, leaving her mouth hanging open and dumbly debating over what to say next. She attempted to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Just... nevermind. Forget it."

"No, say it again."

She paused, noting the look of confusion etched across Draco's features. "You think I'd truly believe that your family willingly offered for me to stay here? That you volunteered for it or something? That's a riot – "

"You think we're doing this because of _war reparations_? After three bloody years, you think we owe anything back to you – "

"Not me!" His daftness solicited yet another eye roll. "It's why your family did it those other times also." She was instructed by Greengrass to keep that confidential bit of knowledge to herself, but damn it to hell, Malfoy deserved a taste of his own mockery. "I know about everything, give it up already. Merlin. Stop pretending like you did all this out of the kindness of your hearts – "

" _Other times_? The hell are you on about?"

He really was going to make her spell it out, wasn't he? Feigning ignorance wasn't a good look for anyone, but especially not him.

"Look," said Hermione with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose and forcing herself to be the bigger person. "It's decent enough, Malfoy. I mean, what your family did... Choosing to accept the agreement and not put up a screaming fight over everything – "

"What bloody agreement? For you to stay here?"

"No – well – I mean, yes. Sort of..." Hermione didn't understand why he was still pretending to be horrified by her revelation, but she played along. "Permitting the Auror Department use of your home when necessary, to guarantee the property wouldn't be seized after the War."

Draco's eye's enlarged, his brows knitting together. " _Seized..._? You're joking, right?"

Who's the damn parrot now?

"Look, I know you didn't volunteer for this, but for the record, neither did I. There's probably a million different places I'd rather be –"

"But you said yes," he declared. "You still agreed."

"I did."

"Why?"

"I certainly wasn't given many options."

"And the Manor was clearly the most sensible one?"

She narrowed her gaze, wondering how he kept up such an odd facial expression. "I'm not thick, Malfoy... If the Law Enforcement Agency deemed the Manor acceptable to be used as a Ministry appointed safe house than I – "

"A _WHAT_?"

Hermione remained silent, watching as Draco's surprise morphed into yet another sneer, growing larger until finally dissolving into full blow chuckles. Laughter. He was bloody _laughing_ at her!

"And what the hell is so funny!?" Hermione demanded. There was nothing funny about the situation, for either of them. Nothing at all, yet he was turning the entire thing into one big joke.

"A Ministry appointed safe house," He mimicked through his mocking giggles. "Sweet Salazar, is that seriously what they told you?"

Her mouth snapped shut. What was he implying? That she was _wrong_?

Draco proceeded mercilessly, "Because I'm trying to figure out if you're just blowing smoke from your arse, or if you're truly so daft as to actually believe that rubbish."

The words hit Hermione like a speeding bludger, playing over in her mind far longer than they should have.

Of course, that's what she had been told! How dare he question it. How dare he make her question herself. The explanation had made perfect sense a few days back; on the same night the most recent incident had happened – the same night she'd ultimately agreed to Greengrass's unrelenting request. At the time, she hadn't even considered the slight possibility that his story regarding the Malfoys and their willingness to assist might be just that…. A story.

"B-but, then... why – "

"Shit, _that's_ why you agreed to stay here, isn't it? You think we're running some sort of victims-evacuee camp."

"No, I didn't say that – "

"Then why else would you agree to this? Why else did you think this was normal?"

That really was the million-Galleon question.

"Me?!" She pointed to herself. "Why would _I_? Why would _your_ family agree to this, Malfoy?"

He paused, watching her. Calculating her reaction. He was so bloody calm she wanted to scream. "You seriously don't know, do you?" he asked. "They didn't tell you _anything_?"

She seethed at his question. Curse him to hell for making her look like a fool! She took a deep breath to steady her speech, "Know about what?"

"Like I'd tell _you_."

Gods, he was infuriating. "Fine. Then don't. I'll just assume what I know to be fact, and that you're just too humiliated to admit I'm right –"

"You're not."

"Then tell me –"

"You honestly fucking believe that the Ministry forced us into sheltering some random lot of fugitives? At the drop of a hat, just whenever they need?" His question was haughty, a demeaning glint in his slate grey eyes. "Fascinating. Let me guess – you were also told not to mention anything regarding this little detail directly to us, yes?"

Or to anyone for that matter…

That certainly was the implication made by Greengrass – following an adamant set of refusals and after her demanding questions as to _why_ the Malfoys would ever agree to such an arrangement.

Godric, _was_ he right?

Why hadn't she enquired more? Why hadn't she researched it further before agreeing and accepting the Auror's counterarguments? Now she appeared as nothing more than a foolish and gullible pillock.

Hermione's annoyance flared, though this time slightly displaced on others rather than solely towards the sneering blond before her. "I never said _forced_! They said… Well, I mean…" _Stop talking!_ her conscious demanded, but the words still escaped. "That... well, that a woman stayed here last year who was being hunted down by her abusive ex-husband –"

"Oh, cheery – a battered woman's asylum, too?" Draco laughed, more flippant sarcasm within his speech than any human being should sustain. "Did they also mention the orphanage we've got running out of our library? Or a sanctuary for the mentally handicapped that we've got operating out of our ballroom – pity you didn't bring Potter and Weasley, they would've fit right in."

She was one snide comment away from tossing the nastiest hex she could conjure his way. Or maybe just running up and reintroducing her palm to his permanently sneering face. At this point, questioning the prejudiced portrait hanging outside her room would've got her farther than conversing with the egotistical git.

She had to leave; had to get away from Malfoy and his infuriating insolence. He was still grinning – as if this was all just some wonderfully hilarious joke. From his perspective, it likely was.

"You know what, forget I said anything." She began walking in the same direction as before. Before being so rudely interrupted by the brazen and worthless conversation. "Clearly it doesn't matter, regardless... Goodnight, Malfoy. This has all been eye-opening. Truly... Wonderful chat. Let's do it again sometime."

_Never_.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my room that I'm apparently supposed to stay confined inside of – is that a problem!?"

He opened his mouth, looking as if he was about to say something, but quickly closed it. "No..." He finally drawled, smirking like he knew something that she didn't. "No problem at all. Better scurry back. Wouldn't want you getting lost now, would we?"

She shot him an enraged glare before spinning on her heels and muttering under her breath as she walked away, "Bloody prick."

Merlin, if she never saw Draco Malfoy again, it would still be too soon.

* * *

 

Draco watched the fuming brunette as she turned to leave; in a huff of rage and stomping off in the exact opposite direction of the East wing her room was located within. If it hadn't been such a pathetic exhibition of snooty stubbornness, he may have actually called out to stop her, pointing towards the correct staircase she should have taken.

"Bloody prick," he heard Granger's insult before she fully disappeared.

He smirked, an odd sense of pride arising from the knowledge that he had riled up miss-perfect enough to induce vulgarity. He certainly wouldn't be doing her any favours that night after her bothersome demonstration.

That night, or ever.

Later on, once he was finally settled down and lying in bed, his thoughts couldn't help but flutter back to Granger and the ridiculous encounter they shared in. He still didn't fully understand _why_ she was moseying around at two in the fucking morning, (clearly assuming everyone else to be asleep) or what she was trying to discover out of her obvious and nosy snooping. Some evidence to prove that his family was involved in dark magic? The reincarnated body of Voldemort? A pile of dead bodies?

Apparently, whatever it was, she found nothing worth mentioning. And she _wouldn't_ , seeing as they had nothing to hide. The Manor had been thoroughly searched directly following the War; void now of any dark and dangerous artifacts that his father once held prized possession of. Despite what people still likely assumed, they weren't stupid enough to make the same mistakes repeatedly, especially while teetering on such a thin line with public opinion and now archived criminal records.

Perhaps Granger's horrendous gap in knowledge was a sensible enough explanation as to why she was so bloody jittery. Jittery. Oversensitive. Lacking any worthwhile rebuttals…

_"If the Law Enforcement Agency deemed the Manor acceptable to be used as a Ministry appointed safe house..."_

Salazar fucking save him; she thought his family was doing this because of some ongoing agreement they had with the sodding Ministry. A lie to sway her into staying there. Why or _how_ he was unsure about, but clearly, the realisation wasn't one which had settled well.

" _Why would your family agree to this, Malfoy?"_

She had no idea about his mother's schemes for reputation repair; no clue that they were clearly doing this without many thoughts of her even in mind. No awareness regarding his father's promised Ministry hearing over his wand getting reinstated, (though who knows if that too was another blatant lie meant to persuade compliance) and certainly no inkling over his family's current state of affairs.

She knew none of it. And if Draco knew one thing for sure, he was going to keep it that way for as long as possible.


	8. Trapped

_***Day Two*** _

" _Stop!" Hermione shrieked, attempting to wriggle her wrist out from the tight hold squeezing around her pulse. "Let go! Get off me!"_

" _You think you're stronger, do you?" asked the faceless man while attempting to overpower her struggles. He wore a white mask, desolate of any expression, the disguise resembling some unfortunate hybrid of a costume seen at a masquerade ball mixed with the terrifying cover once utilised by Death Eaters._

" _You think you can outrun me?"_

_She winced, pausing her futile attempts to wriggle free. "No, I'm not running. Look. See?"_

_The wind left her body as it forcibly slammed against a wall, the once sunlit room now chilled with a threatening essence as if a dark cloud had just passed over. Space now empty of any hope and desolate of her long-forgotten courage; she was trapped._

" _You think you can hide here?" he questioned, pressing harder with both his words and physical strength._

" _I'm not hiding – "_

" _You thought I wouldn't find you? You thought I wouldn't figure out your little game?"_

" _No, ah, you're hurting me! Please... just STOP!"_

"Yo _u think you're smarter?" He pinned both arms above her head, his booming words forcing a shiver down her spine. "That I won't hunt you down? That I won't kill you?"_

" _What do you want from me?" she sobbed, tears of fright becoming unavoidable right then. He ignored her question equally as he ignored her pleads._

" _My, my, what a lovely complexion you have… I bet it would look even prettier after getting slit open, don't you agree? Right – " His index finger dug into her throat. " – here… Red really is your colour, my love."_

_Just as suddenly as his hand enclosed around her neck, a voice appeared:_

" _Please, do use magic if you're going to off her in here. The carpets were just Scourgifyed earlier this week..."_

_Hermione's eyes snapped over the figure's shoulder, pinpointing towards the entryway where a sneering face greeted back._

" _There are cleaning charms for that," said her attacker, visibly irritated by such an untimely interruption. "Besides, the spell just isn't nearly as – " His rough hands once more found the nape of her neck. "… satisfying."_

" _MALFOY, HELP ME!" Her begging came out through choked sobs, eyes imploring him from across the Manor's spacious guest suite._

" _And why would I help such an ungrateful piece of filth like you?" he questioned. "I was the one who led him up here, you moron! A safe house… seriously? Here? Fuck… you'll believe anything, Granger."_

" _Y-you wouldn't," she shakily murmured. "I know you wouldn't."_

" _And why not? One less dirty Mudblood around – the better."_

" _You don't really think that."_

" _And how would you know?"_

" _Because you were almost crying!" she heaved out the words like they weighed two tonnes, feeling the setting somehow shift solely onto them. She was toppled over now, on the ground, gazing up at Malfoy's hovering and overpowering stance. Gone was her attacker; the floors now different, no longer carpeted, but instead replaced with dark hardwood. Their new surroundings reeked of prior familiarity. Terrifyingly so. The chandelier. The couch. "...here. With Bellatrix. I-I remember. No one else noticed; everyone was too busy looking at me... but I saw –"_

" _Nothing. You saw nothing... People frequently hallucinate while suffering the Cruciatus Curse. Especially people with weak minds and inferior magic. People like you."_

" _Malfoy, you wanted out," she cried, tears streaking down her face, blubbering out the words. "You wanted different – "_

" _You stupid Mudblooded bitch... like I would ever cry for YOU."_

xXx

Hermione's eyelids shot open, her lungs gasping for air.

She rolled over onto her back, the moisture coating her skin's surface forcing a chill to glide down as she did nothing more than emulate a recovering marathon runner; breathe in deep, breathe out steady.

Hermione didn't even know what time it had been when she finally met the welcoming embrace of slumber. She raced the sunrise, dawn creeping through the curtains by the time it had finally arrived. Unfortunately, such luxuries only lasted so long.

The nightmare still caressing her conscious was a far cry from her worst. In it there was no blood – no real acts of violence or visions of torture. Nothing but obvious fears modelled by the masked figure who commonly haunted her dreams with frightening menace.

No, the terrifying part was how tangible it felt. Racing through her unconscious like an actual memory of something which happened only minutes earlier. It was total rubbish, but a part of her always clung to the belief that if she could understand the visions – why they happened, what they meant – she could learn new ways to prevent them.

Over again it replayed.

" _And how would you know?"_

" _Because you were almost crying!"_

For some reason, her mind wouldn't lay that fragment to rest. Masked Stalker, her threatened life, and cowardly fears be damned – no _that_ was the part she couldn't stop rewinding: her wild allegation. Or more accurately, her mind's wild imagination.

Dream interpretation was an even dodgier branch of the already asinine subject of Divination, but Hermione still overanalyzed hers with little restriction.

Her encounter last night with Malfoy was one she assumed could have gone better. A shred of remorse twinged at her conscious about how poorly she handled the situation, knowing she shouldn't have fed into his flames like she had. Childish and pointless – it wasn't worth attempting pleasantries towards him – too much animosity existed to even bother.

It wasn't shocking; not even relatively surprising really. Had she expected some pleasant two A.M. exchange, like past friends eager to relive old times? There was no friendship to revive, and certainly no times that either one of them would rather relive. He was still the same pureblooded prat as before, and apparently, neither age nor (what should have become) lessons learned could change that.

Did she honestly expect some heart of gold to develop underneath Malfoy's bigoted remarks and revolting sneers solely because of an exit from teenagehood? _Doubtful_. Though, maybe because of the freedom-granting pardon he had received, despite his laundry list of prior transgressions made throughout the War and all its proceedings? _Even more doubtful._

The War had produced more messes out of people than miracles, and Draco Malfoy was certainly no exception, with no marvel transformation or newfound compassion. And perhaps there was some strange comfort in that. Sameness. Something static when everything around her was so bloody unpredictable.

She ordered herself to end the thoughts, wondering what was worse: her thirst for information regarding why she was _lied_ _to_ by the Ministry or floundering in more self-pity.

There was no point in torturing herself.

She didn't know yet how her day would be spent, but she committed the remainder of her fleeting worries to be occupied by the therapeutic effects of a long, scorching shower.

* * *

 

"You're up early."

Draco cocked an eyebrow after his entrance into the kitchen, trying to determine if such statement was made through intended sarcasm or not.

"... It's nearly eleven." He picked up an apple from a bowl atop the countertop, biting into its tough exterior and crunching the fruit in a way which warranted a disapproving scowl from his mother.

"Correction then... earlier than usual. Always a pleasant surprise to see you up and lively before midday arrives."

He sat down at the island within the Manor's open kitchen, questioning if she occupied the room solely out of coincidence, or if she had successfully managed to cast a tracking charm on him without notice.

"You look nice, mother." His tone was light as he teased, "Is there a dinner party you're planning on arriving seven hours early to?"

She pursed her lips together, hiding a smile induced by his mocking tone. She'd always claim she couldn't feed into his bad-mannered behaviour by reacting. He'd always claim she did regardless.

"No. No formal luncheon or dinner party, I'm afraid... I'm heading into Diagon Alley for a bit of shopping and to handle some business at Gringotts. Would you care to join?"

He's rather get stung by a Blast-Ended Skrewt, to be honest. "Can you pick me up some more Doxy Venom from the apothecary? I'm running low."

"That wasn't an answer."

Another non-answer fell from his lips, "Can't you send a house-elf for the shopping?"

"Of course, I _can_ ," she acknowledged. "But I'm not going to keep myself locked up all winter like a troll in hibernation, dear…. A change of scenery is good sometimes. You know, we could even have lunch at that new French café they just opened, _La Petite Théière._ You've heard of it, yes? When was the last time you left the house anyway?"

Her nagging really knew no bounds.

"I go out plenty."

"Hardly what anyone would consider plenty," she argued, crossing over the kitchen tiles as if preparing to leave. "But if that's a _no_ , then – "

"Shouldn't father go with you? Gringott's business and all."

Pausing, Narcissa took a deep breath. "No. He's..." She trailed off. "Feeling a bit under the weather today. I shan't bother him with unnecessary day trips – "

"Nothing a bit of Pepper-Up potion can't fix, I'd reckon."

" _Draco_ …"

He knew what the warning meant: _drop it._ Pressing anymore was useless, they danced around the topic so often it felt almost natural by then.

His father loathed going out in public these days, unless an absolute and unavoidable necessity. Too much shame; the embarrassment alone almost worse than the punishment itself. Not that Draco could claim much better for himself, but at least he was still allotted a wand to carry around, allowed a thread dignity. What small amount was left anyway.

"I'll just bring Fretcher," she announced, referencing a dim but obedient house-elf commonly found trailing her every move whenever she ventured past the Manor's confines. "Since you clearly have _such_ a full schedule today."

Draco sighed, defeated. "Alright, fine..."

With the levels of animosity and shifty glances it frequently warranted, he hated the idea of her going out alone. Meddlesome people who didn't know how to keep their bloody mouths shut was not the picturesqueness of an enjoyable outing, but the least he could do was endure it with her.

Granted, she was more than capable of protecting herself if conflict arose, but a nagging in his brain wouldn't stop the flutter of guilt that crept through. Despite any strain upon their relationship, she was still his mother, and she deserved better. Specifically, she deserved his father at her side for support, like it had been for all those years prior… Another way he had to pick up the slack where Lucius fell short. The theme of his life, or so it seemed.

" _Alright_ , what?"

"I'll come with you." Draco tried not to roll his eyes at the beam of delight which radiated from him mother's newly painted smile. "Let me go change, give me a minute."

"Very well. I'll meet you out front. We'll have to walk out past the gates to apparate – with the floo channels blocked and all."

_Don't bloody remind me._

* * *

 

Hermione had always prided herself on being an organised person, keen on making sure everything had its own particular place. And this, itself, was no different. Not really.

She just needed _something_. Something to fill the morning, to make her feel as if she wasn't occupying borrowed space, borrowed time, a borrowed life.

She flicked her wand one last time, the heavy item landing atop the floor with graceful precision.

"There," she whispered to herself, pleased with all the new renditions.

She never pinned herself as any grand master at interior design or expert of feng shui, but with a few levitation spells and a handful of colour modification charms, she had eaten up the better part of an hour changing the inside of her room.

She first regarded the idea as potentially rude; Malfoy's aggravating claims of her being an ungrateful houseguest pegging at her mind before quickly being disregarded as nonsense. She would move everything back before she departed, and it was unlikely anyone besides Mipsey or another house-elf would see the changes anyway.

She didn't do it out of spite. Nothing of the sort. It was just... the bed belonged opposite the door. And with the bed moved, it was only fitting that the two dressers would also change locations – sticking both large wardrobes beside each other to free up space next to a mahogany desk.

The colours needed changing, too. She should have been grateful for such crisp white linens versus depressing hues of Slytherin Green she half-expected the Malfoys to employ, but it all just felt too much like hotel sheets or hospital bedding. Nothing like the reminiscence of home.

Then again, why did she attempt the useless task of tricking her senses anyway? Like they may intake the shade of blue she had charmed the duvet into and output the belief that she was back at home, wrapped up in her own blankets? Unlikely. Hermione could transfigure every last piece of furniture into the same ones that she owned, and it still wouldn't make her forget where she was.

Still, it had a touch of _her_ now added, a speck of personality. Something she could modify when she couldn't govern anything else around her.

She grimaced at the thought, wondering if perhaps Ron was right: she was a control freak.

Hermione glanced over at the Grandfather clock, quite possibly the only piece of furniture not touched by magic, standing in the same position as before.

Godric save her sanity, it wasn't even noon yet.

* * *

 

"I'll be upstairs," said Draco once they had finally arrived back home.

The day spent in Diagon Alley wasn't nearly as pain inducing as most excursions proved. Ignoring people was far easier to accomplish by venturing places together. Despite his mother being too proud to admit it, the burning stares of stranger's eyes were enough to drive any solitary person mad while walking the cobbled streets of wizarding London.

The remainder of his day stood uneventful.

Upon arriving home, he had immediately trekked upstairs to his study to unload the potion supplies he'd brought back from two different apothecaries', along with a new Alchemy book purchased at Flourish and Blotts.

Flashing a glance at Granger's room across the hallway, he briefly questioned what she could have possibly spent her day doing. _Likely sleeping,_ he mused to himself, remembering her afternoon nap yesterday, and how she apparently now mimicked the nocturnal sleeping habits of a Mooncalf.

Dinner with his parents was mundane as ever expected, listening to his mother excitably gush about their day spent together while his father responded now and then with a cut nod or short sentence fragment to forge interest.

"How's the girl?" Lucius had disgruntledly questioned; her reference said with the same inflection he assumed most others used while speaking Voldemort's name. Or _theirs_ for that matter.

"Dunno. Haven't seen her." Draco didn't know why he lied so quickly, nonetheless at all, but it seemed like the correct answer to fill the tense air. What he _wished_ to be the case, at least.

"Hasn't made a peep so far." His mother was quick to cut in, her answer sounding like a well-rehearsed sales pitch. "She spent all of today and yesterday within her room – reading, apparently. Or so Mipsey insisted. The thing seems rather enamoured with her – "

"Salazar himself couldn't understand _why,_ " Draco grumbled.

" – She just reads and sleeps, from what I gather. She rejected the offer for a ground's tour and to eat within the dining hall, so clearly, she's quite content with solitude. Quite a pleasant surprise, if you ask me."

"Good," muttered Lucius, two knowing lines of disdain etched between his eyebrows. "See to it that doesn't change... A few locking charms on her door might be a useful start."

"Yes, well – for right now – the girl's unfortunate personality quirks seem to be doing the job just fine."

And that was it. No further mention of the white elephant within the room; the Mudblood within the Manor. Back to pretending like nothing mattered anyway. Like everything was normal.

He wondered at what exact moment his family had become so wonderfully proficient as ignoring every last heap of mayhem added to their once peaceful lives. He supposed _this_ was the new normal. Pretending. Existing.

Draco soon asked to be excused early from dinner that night.

* * *

 

The _pop_ of apparition shifted Hermione's attention from the book she cradled within her lap.

It still felt rather odd – having the creature appear without warning inside her occupied bedroom, teetering the boundaries between personal space and privacy. Despite it, she never truly minded much, always eager to shower appreciation for whatever purpose was being served.

"Thank you, Mipsey. The scallops were absolutely divine, by the way." Hermione spoke from her seat on the couch, watching the house-elf clear her dinner tray with nimble wandless magic. "Did you make them yourself?"

"Oh, no, Miss Hermione." The elf's rounded cheeks flushed a light pink. "Mother tells Mipsey she is not a very good cook… No good at all, she always burns things. Mother won't let Mipsey touch dinner unless to deliver it. Mipsey is much better at cleaning charms than cooking ones."

Hermione frowned emphatically. How dare Narcissa demand the poor thing be forced into indentured housework for the remainder of its days? Like the spoiled witch could even make a bloody cheese sandwich if she had to.

"Nonsense! I'm sure your cooking's lovely, all the same... Besides, it's not like any of the Malfoy's could do much better. I doubt they'd win any Wand-Wiz Culinary Awards for their creations."

The elf appeared confused for a moment before a look of understanding crossed over. "Oh – no, no. Mipsey's apologies. She wasn't clear. Mipsey meant _her_ mother. Not Mistress Malfoy. Mipsey's mother prepares all the meals; Mipsey will inform Mother that Miss Hermione enjoyed her scallops."

She lowered her glance to meet Mipsey's massive green-eyed one. "Your mum works here as well?"

Surprising. She knew most house-elves that served wizarding families were typically purchased from Ministry monitored _caretakers_ (just the implication alone inducing a violent wince) after being separated from their mothers at a relatively young age. The whole process was unreasonably vile and out of date... Another bullet point on her massive list of necessary reforms to implement.

"O-oh, why, yes," Mipsey stuttered, apparently shocked by such interest. "Mipsey was born here."

"Fascinating," Hermione whispered, partially to herself as she eyed the creature's petite frame. "How nice that you both get to work together, though."

"Yes, sometimes," Mipsey nodded hesitantly.

"She must be wonderfully proud of everything you do."

"Oh... Miss Hermione is very kind to say so. Very kind, indeed."

Hermione smiled, feeling another twinge of sorrow over how unaccustomed the elf was towards basic levels of compassion. "As are you, Mipsey. I appreciate your company... it would be pretty lonely here without it. It's nice to have a friend in this place. All things considered."

"A... friend?" Mipsey looked like she might shed a tear at the chosen terminology. "Never has a witch wanted to be Mipsey's... _friend_ before."

Hermione kindly replied, "Well, all the one's you've encountered are sorely missing out then – the way I see it."

"Miss Hermione should stay," the young house-elf said suddenly, imploring the witch with her optimistic look. "If Miss Hermione stays here, then Mipsey will get to be her friend forever."

"Oh – well…I'm not going anywhere right now." Guilt appeared because of the silent prayer she gave over hoping that would soon change. "Besides, I'll still be your friend no matter where I am, Mipsey."

"Will Miss Hermione come and visit, even after she's gone home?"

"I – er," she stuttered awkwardly, not wanting to crush the hopeful gleam radiating from Mipsey's round orbs. "Yes, I maybe could, er – if the Malfoy's allowed it."

Oh, Merlin, what had she just agreed to?

"Miss Hermione likes to read," Mipsey stated, clearly overlooking Hermione's hesitation as she gestured to the book which lay beside her.

"I do."

"Mipsey has an idea." Mipsey's eyes shifted, glistening with something different. Something Hermione couldn't quite read.

"Oh, yeah?" she questioned. "And what would that be?"

"Would Miss Hermione like to see the Library?"

* * *

 

Beauty didn't even begin to describe it.

She had done so well at suppressing awestricken breaths over the professional sized Quidditch pitch; the lake viewable from her room; the foyers decorated with lavish relics of historical significance... Everything up until then. But picking up her unhinged jaw from the red and black rug which lined the floor of where Hermione now occupied seemed meaningless by that point.

It was one of those settings which seemed impossible to be unhappy within, like an amusement park as a child, or a beach while on vacation. Mesmerised, she gazed upon the room which was only steps away from hers all along. Like beautiful scenery that your eyes can't stray from, she explored the vast library with unavoidable interest. There were shelves which lined every wall, high enough to touch the vaulted ceilings and filled to the brim with books of all shapes, sizes, and colours. Racks and racks of literature, some which she recognised, most which looked unfamiliar, waiting eagerly to be discovered.

Stained glass windows showed only blackness at that time of night; the chamber's lustre originating from a glass chandelier which dangled overhead. There were multiple desks dispersed throughout, and an alcove which housed a brown leather couch settled beside a massive stone fireplace.

"Does Miss Hermione enjoy seeing the Library?"

Hermione's attention snapped back, registering that Mipsey had left for a minute and now just returned. A stack of books hovered beside the creature's stout frame.

"It's absolutely beautiful, yes."

"Mipsey brought some books she thought Miss Hermione might like." With a snap of the elf's fingers, the heap of hardcover books dropped down atop the nearest desk she stood beside.

"Thank you," Hermione shot her a grateful smile, walking over to examine them. An Alchemy and Ancient Ruins textbook and two massive hardcover novels made up the pile.

"Miss Hermione can stay in here for as long as she'd like. No one comes in here. Miss Hermione won't be bothered."

 _What a shame,_ she mused over how underused the space was, but couldn't deny that the information relieved her somewhat.

"I really appreciate it, Mipsey. Thank you again."

* * *

 

Draco let out an exasperated sigh while allowing himself a few frustrated paces back and forth. Just what he fucking needed.

His Alchemy manuscript no longer sat atop his work desk. It was gone. Missing. Not just from where he'd previously left it, but also from the multiple bookshelves which lined the walls of his potion's lab; occupying not a single spot on any of the shelving, infuriating Draco with each further second he searched the room.

Draco retraced his footsteps. The only explanation for the book's mysterious absence was if one of the blasted house-elves came in and disturbed his belongings while cleaning. _Why_ they would clean upstairs during dinner time made little sense, but he didn't make a habit of interpreting house-elf logic or their daily schedule rotations.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Draco attempted to relax, deciding to check the only place where he could fathom a book would get misplaced within.

His walk down the hallway was a short one, swinging open one of the massive oak doors which led into the Library and strutting in with heated purpose.

Once inside, Draco stopped dead in his tracks.

_Bloody fucking hell, of course._

It took all but two seconds to recognise the dustbin-equivalent mass of brown curls which spun round and took note to his sudden entrance. Hermione Granger sat off to one side of the Manor's library, near its crackling fireplace and atop the sofa nestled in one corner. She appeared flustered, speaking quietly.

"Oh, hello..."

Draco instantly counted her weak greeting. "Well, well, how painfully predictable this is. You would have already taken root inside here, wouldn't you Granger?"

She let an undignified huff escape from her nostrils. "Seeing as it's quite literally a stone's throw away from my room... why wouldn't I? Thought it better than... what was it? 'Snooping around in places where I don't belong'. That is what you said before, isn't it?"

"It's still considered snooping if you go waltzing into different rooms without permission."

"For your information, I was escorted here. Thanks for the concern."

"By who? You do know the voices inside your head don't count as escorts, right?"

"As if it's any of _your_ business..." She closed the book on her lap, standing to level herself out with him as if sitting somehow weakened her stance on things. "But if you must know, one of your house-elves kindly showed me in here."

"Ah, befriending the help already... There really isn't an ending to just how far you'll lower yourself, is there?"

"The only thing _lowering_ me is this conversation." Her brown eyes shot daggers from across the room, picking up the stack of four books previously seated beside her on the sofa. "So, if you don't mind. Excuse me. I'll just be taking these back to my room, so you can do... well, whatever it is you're in here for. Goodnight, Malfoy."

Gods, the girl was fucking childish, running away at the tiniest fleck of conflict.

"Relax, Granger. I just came in here to look for a book. I'll be out in one bloody minute... Then you can go right back to making love to that Ancient Ruins textbook if you want. Just do everyone a favour and burn it afterwards, please."

For a second he thought she might toss something at him, but she just glared, as if she'd never heard anything so vile. He took the opportunity to turn his back to her, aiming his wand towards the rows of different shelves in an attempt to find his misplaced item. It had to be amongst one of them.

Closing his eyes, he focused. " _Accio_ Alchemy Manuscript."

Instead of watching any disturbance occur from atop the library's multi-layered shelving, the first and only sense he took notice to was the sudden sound of books toppling over onto the ground behind him.

Spinning around to face where the noise had originated, he ducked as the previously summoned object zoomed past his head, his reflexes powerless to catch it while coming from such an unexpected direction. It landed a few paces away, directly onto the floor in a mess of opened pages.

"Seriously, Malfoy!" Granger shrieked, throwing her arms up and imitating a ranging banshee as she bent down to recover her fallen items. "You couldn't have just _asked_? I would have given that to you, you know!"

 _She had it_. He realised, radiating waves of fury as he watched the brunette pile the other three books back into her clutches before standing.

"You little thief... How dare you!"

Her glance darted up towards him, furrowing her brow in confusion as if he'd just uttered a foreign language. "How dare I, _what_?"

"You think you can just rifle through my things – take whatever you bloody please from anywhere you go?"

"What are you talking about?"

He ignored her aggravating act, the wench pretending like she had no idea what he was speaking about. Instead of answering, he walked over to where the summoned book had landed on the floor, picking it up.

"Don't you dare go into my study ever again, is that clear?"

"Excuse me?" said Granger. "Y-you think I – _what_? I don't even know where that is! I've been in here the whole time."

"Right, of course," Draco spat, crossing over the rug as she stood there dumbly. "Then how did you get a hold of this?" He held up his formerly missing Alchemy book. "No wonder you were in such a hurry to leave – didn't want me taking notice to your kleptomaniac tendencies, huh? Fucking pathetic."

"Yes, you're raging paranoia is rather pathetic, well spotted. Maybe if you took better care of your things, you wouldn't lose them, then have to go around making false accusations!"

"Putting an item on my desk and having someone _steal_ it, doesn't classify as losing something. Surely a walking dictionary like yourself would know the difference between lost and stolen, yeah?"

"I'm not doing this again," she snarled through gritted teeth, clutching her small stack of books while looking more and more like the miserable swot she truly was. "Merlin, you could argue with a brick wall just for fun... likely because you resemble one so closely in regards to emotional intelligence – "

"Says the girl who agreed to stay here because they couldn't handle a few little love notes from some sodding secret admirer – "

"Shut up!" Raging flames lit within her eyes again. He had stuck a nerve. "Don't you dare bring that into this!"

"Where are all your friends anyway, Granger? No one around to swoop in and play the hero?"

"Don't pretend like you know anything about what's happened; like you know anything about me… You know nothing! What gives you any right – "

"I know plenty actually. Unlike you," his words were spoken confidently, with an air of attitude. "I'm just pointing out the glaring truth of things. You were the one who agreed to stay here."

"Yes. And the glaring truth is – you're right – I did agree. As did you, in one way or another... And because of that, I'm going to handle myself like an adult, not like some whiny toddler. Which is more than I can say for one of us."

She spun on her heels to leave. Draco didn't attempt to stop her, didn't attempt even a word of protest. Like he even _cared_. She soon reached out to press one palm against the only set of double doors which served as an exit from the Library but was promptly met with clear resistance.

"That's not funny, Malfoy."

Draco looked over at her, still smirking, "What isn't?"

"The door – unlock it."

"It isn't _locked_ , Granger," said Draco, rolling his eyes at the suggestion.

"It won't open."

"Because you apparently have the strength of a pygmy puff."

There was that bloody glare again, digging into his soul like it was trying to scrape out every last shred of patience still left within. She placed the few books down (that she was apparently also trying to _steal_ ) and withdrew her wand, whispering the charm with precision towards both metal handles. " _Alohomora_."

Nothing.

Well, of course, there was nothing – the doors weren't even sealed in the first place. The library didn't have manual locks on the inside _or_ outside, but of course, she wouldn't listen to a word of it. Talk about emotional intelligence like a bloody brick wall.

Draco watched the witch one last time forcibly press her body against one of the doors without any success before deciding the display was far too pathetic to keep viewing. He walked up beside where she stood.

"Move aside, Granger," he commanded, pressing against the door and pushing it open with ease like he'd done a million times prior.

Except that wasn't what happened.

_What the –_

Apparently, this time around – it didn't want to budge. The door remained shut, inducing a scowl from Draco in annoyance. He forced every last shred of strength he had against the typically effortless exit, red in the face by the time he finally gasped for breath and relinquished vigour placed upon the unmoving doorframe.

He looked over at Granger, but she didn't even meet his glance. She was too busy pointing her wand up and reciting another charm.

" _Patentibus_."

She nearly slammed herself against the entryway in hopes to dislodge it, shaking, pouring out all of her might. It still didn't shift.

" _Reserare Ianuam_."

Nothing.

" _Ostium SEMIAPERTUS!_ "

A crash of her body against the wood induced another loud thud, Draco questioning if she dislodged her shoulder from such an aggressive push.

"Will you stop it? You're going to fucking injure yourself."

"Oh, like you'd care!" She slapped her palm against the woodwork in a frustrated gesture. One final trying effort came from her wand, " _Concussam Ingressum_!"

"Granger, it's not working…"

"It has to work!" She finally took a moment from her frantic spell spitting to look over at him. "The doors just must be... jammed – that's all. Come on. Will you stop standing there and help?"

But there was no helping to be done. She'd already exhausted every unlocking charm he knew by heart, and it was painfully clear that physical force from either of them wouldn't be enough.

Salazar save his soul, they were fucking trapped.


	9. Crying for Help

_"It has to work… The doors just must be... jammed – that's all. Come on. Will you stop standing there and help?"_

Hermione's request only earned an uncooperative eye roll from the blond, his evident lack of urgency making her want to wedge his head between the two doors and use _it_ as a prying tool. She knew such tactics would likely be frowned upon, but the temptation still lingered.

"It's rather amusing to watch you attempt this by yourself, Granger."

His late response hardly even registered. She was too busy – reflecting upon their dreadful situation and not allowing herself any more reason to ponder the nagging suspicion pulling at her mind. The one regarding the source of such a predicament and poking holes in her conscious, making little to no actual sense.

Still, she couldn't help but connect the glaringly suspicious dots.

_Mipsey wouldn_ _'_ _t do this, would she?_

Irksome uncertainties, but then again... she was the one who gave her the stack of books – one of them apparently belonging to Malfoy. Had Hermione said something to give Mipsey the wrong idea? An irrational plan over how to trick her into staying? By what, locking her in a library? And with Malfoy of all people...

No, the door was just jammed. Stuck in a particular way that Unlocking Spells posed no use for; that was all.

An assumption she wished she was foolish enough to believe.

"We can just summon a house-elf."

Malfoy's suggestion came suddenly. Almost excitedly before regaining a stern lip – looking over towards her as if he'd known that answer all along and she was some blithering idiot for not having suggested it sooner. She could tell he was bluffing.

"Oh?" Hermione said, feigning ignorance. Or perhaps just stalling.

"I mean, _obviously_. They can Apparate us out of here."

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to speak an objection, but there simply wasn't one to give. She didn't want to fathom the reaction it would invoke if Mipsey became the one indicted for this. She'd heard horror stories regarding the punishments Dobby received throughout his years of servitude to the Malfoys; who's to say Mipsey would receive any differently? Only this time, it would be _her_ fault... She'd be the one to blame.

Hermione nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I – I, uh, well…"

"You _what_ , Granger?" Malfoy challenged.

_Sod it._

It would be more suspicious to object than just to nod and agree. And even if Mipsey _did_ somehow have connections to this, it wasn't like Malfoy ever needed to know. She'd make sure of it.

Thankfully, she was certain there were plenty of other house-elves to call upon. They could Apparate out and part their separate ways without so much as another fluttering mention of the glaringly peculiar incidence. Malfoy probably wouldn't care one way or another; so long as he was through dealing with _her_. This contempt was practically tattooed on his forehead anyway.

"You're right," Hermione breathed out the two-word agreement, trying to steer away from further controversy. "Of course. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Yes, _why?_ … Thank God one of us can still think logically," Malfoy scoffed averting eye contact once she made it, "I'm not just going to sit around, waiting for you to _Bombarda_ the doors off their hinges like some fucking savage."

_Merlin, that would have been a good idea._

"Then why didn't you say anything befo – you know what? Never mind... Go ahead, cry for help. You're brilliant at it, from what I remember."

The words fell from her lips in the same way so many others before them had – with no filter and having little remorse. She prepared herself for some one-liner or a hurtful quip in response, but all Malfoy did was roll his eyes equally as she had prior, following her instructions unlike she ever expected.

"MIPSEY!"

"NO! Wait –" Hermione caught herself, Malfoy looking like he'd just been interrupted in the middle of an Unbreakable Vow. "What about _your_ house-elf? Er, other house- _elves,_ I mean."

"Who better to summon than the one who led you in here? That is what you said, isn't it?"

"Oh, well... yes." Hermione faltered once again, vividly recalling her former declaration about being escorted into the library by a house-elf; but how did Malfoy even remember that part, moreover, draw the correct conclusion because of it?

"Wonderful. Then maybe she has some insight over who decided to lock us in here like bloody prisoners."

_Oh, bugger..._

"How long does it usually take?" she asked after a few moments of drawn-out silence, feeling somewhat silly for not knowing the answer. Her knowledge regarding summoning spells trained between master and _slave_ relations originated solely from literature she'd read over throughout the years.

As if she'd ever use one in practice...

"Seconds." His muttered response drew up further apprehension. "But of course, _you_ would get assigned the insubordinate one –"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That one's always running off and getting into trouble –"

" _That one_ has a name, you know!"

And as if on cue, the _crack_ of apparition drew both of their attentions away from one another and onto the centre of the room.

"Young Master Malfoy, you summoned?" said Mipsey, looking up at the pair expectantly.

Hermione spoke up before Malfoy had a chance to, "Yes, Mipsey. We did."

She ignored the patronising glare aimed her way and jumped into a short monologue: quickly rambling over how the doors somehow ' _jammed_ ' together and wouldn't budge – even with the utilisation of multiple Unlocking Charms. Mipsey watched her speak, eagerly nodding as if hanging on by a thread to each word that was uttered.

"Yes. Lovely, Granger," Malfoy interrupted before she could ask Mipsey to Apparate them respectively to their separate rooms. "Except you're leaving out the part where the doors are clearly barred by magic, not just stuck together like some ruddy old dresser drawers."

"I was getting to that, thanks."

He cocked an eyebrow in a way which made Hermione question what he thought about. _Did he know?_ Apparently, the conclusion wasn't difficult for her to reach – who's to say he didn't arrive at the same one?

"Because you mentioning by name each and every failed Unlocking Charm was imperative to the story –"

"I was getting there."

"And I was getting to my thirtieth birthday faster –"

"Mipsey maybe knows what happened," said a soft voice which broke apart the oncoming row.

"You do?" questioned Hermione in a gentle hum.

"Yes," nodded the elf, fidgeting more than necessary. "It may have possibly been… Blinky. Blinky was assigned cleaning duty of the library tonight." She paused before flailing her tiny arms out in exasperation. "Mipsey has tried to tell Blinky, but Blinky is very old. Very senile… Blinky must have cast a locking enchantment in here, one that wizard spells won't work on."

Hermione glanced towards Malfoy, who clearly had a much better idea of who Mipsey was referencing than she did.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Well…" Mipsey trailed off, shooting glances between the two of them. "Blinky does not like Miss Hermione, not at all. Not like Mipsey does. Always walking around, saying mean things. Saying terrible things…"

"About me being Muggle-born?" Hermione cut in, suggesting the only thing which made any sense in her mind. She remembered the way Kreacher had initially treated her, reminding herself that prejudice was not only a trait which plagued human beings; it only made sense that the live-in staff ruling over the Malfoy's estate shared in similar belief sets.

Now, if only she believed anything else Mipsey was claiming...

Mipsey nodded, looking down towards her bare feet and shuffling them uncomfortably. "Yes, Miss. Blinky said that Miss Hermione needs to be gone… for good."

* * *

 

Whatever elf-magic had imposed the locked entryway seemed to dissolve almost immediately after one wave of the creature's small hand, Draco scowling to himself as Mipsey swung open the Library doors with ease.

The entire thing annoyed him to no end. Firstly, because of Granger's irritating mission to make any situation as horrendously difficult to endure as possible. And secondly, because the of the creature's dodgy explanation regarding why the doors had mysteriously sealed in the first place…

He knew Granger plucking something out from of his study was ridiculously uncharacteristic for such a bleeding do-gooder like herself, no matter how many conclusions he had earlier jumped to out of annoyed haste. But why –

"Can Mipsey be of any more service?"

Draco glanced over, the brunette appearing edgy as if hiding a secret that only she knew. Finally, she settled on giving out a curt nod and answering, "No, thank you. Your help is very much appreciated, Mipsey."

"No trouble at all, Miss," came the equally as kiss-arse reply. "Do not hesitate to call if anything else is needed –"

" _You_ did this, didn't you?" said Draco, the retort coming out more as an accusation than a question. The elf just blinked up at him, saying nothing in return.

_Bloody insubordinate little_ _–_

"Malfoy!" Granger's pitch could have rivalled a screeching Mandrake as she answered before the defiant thing could do so for itself. "She's already told us what happened!"

"Mipsey was downstairs the entire time, Master," the elf finally piped up and took a few steps backwards.

It wasn't that he particularly cared to delve into the topic any further, though watching Granger squirm over everything was entertainment enough to warrant his next declaration.

"Very well then." The girl's shoulders noticeably relaxed until he continued, "I'll be sure to inform my father about his ageing, rogue house-elf who apparently has the audacity to lock people up in rooms… Clearly, something must be done about that." He turned on his heels to leave, walking in the opposite direction and leaving the brunette standing speechless with her eyes bulging out in horror.

He didn't know why he said it; perhaps he just enjoyed a good reaction from her.

And a good reaction was precisely what he got.

"Wait up! Hey, look, I… er, _bollocks_ –" He swore she tripped over thin air but managed to regain her composure within seconds. "I mean – it's fine… it wasn't a big deal. Let's just drop it, yeah? It's not like we were stuck in there all night."

She was walking beside him now. Keeping with his pace down the hallway, moving farther and farther away from the library with each subsequent step forward. The worry etched across her features was ridiculous and unwarranted, though he wasn't sure why each glance he shot backwards made him reconsider the severity of his next question.

"Are you following me?"

"Are you going to tell your parents about this?" Granger asked, almost running into the wall as they turned a sharp corner. "Because, I mean, if you are –"

"That doesn't really concern you, does it? Sort of a family matter," he sneered, taking note of the further upset which flashed across her features.

"I was involved, too. Of course, it concerns me – Hey! Slow down."

"Hm, and let me guess – you're also worried I'll figure out that whole charade back there was a _lie_?"

"W-what?" she stammered. "No. Of course not –"

"Then why are you still following me?"

"I'm not, I think you're being unreasonable! I want to make sure –"

"That I don't get Mipsey in trouble for locking us in the library and then covering it with some complete and utter bullshit excuse?"

"No –"

"Then what?"

"Fine! Okay! Yes, you're right!" she brashly announced, stepping in front of him so that he couldn't walk without colliding into her halted frame. "It is bullshit. Because... Well, because I did it. I told Mipsey to seal the library shut as a joke. I thought it'd be funny to watch you get worked up over nothing."

As if _he_ were the one who got even remotely worked up... Granger, on the other hand, looked like she might birth a cow when the doors refused to budge. Draco couldn't fathom the type of idiot she assumed him as to believe such a suggestion.

"You're unbelievable." He watched redness flush over her cheeks, but for some reason, she refused to give up.

"I am, yes. You're right. Just promise you won't say anything, okay?" The wench was practically begging him as if he were holding a knife up to the creature's throat. "If you're going to be mad, be mad at me."

"Salazar save us, will you let up already? Fuck... Why are you lying for some bloody house-elf anyway? One of your strange moral convictions? Worried that I'm going to sentence her to death or something?"

"I'm not lyi – wait, what did you say?"

He ignored her question and continued, "Whatever she did and _why_ ever she did it – I don't particularly care." He sidestepped her frozen stance, continuing to walk down the empty corridor until he reached a staircase. They both began to descend it, the girl taking the stairs two at a time to catch up with him.

"S-so you're not going to mention anything about this? Mipsey... she won't be punished?"

Draco snorted. He could think of no announcement he'd rather make less than telling his parents a house-elf managed to barricade him into a room; with the know-it-all Gryffindor no less. Besides, it looked like she may burst into tears if he answered with any form of 'yes' to her pathetic enquiry.

"Of course not." The witch almost crashed into him once he stopped walking, halting directly in front of his bedroom quarters and turning to face her. "She's your problem right now anyway. Not mine."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up, and she soon straightened her posture, clearly trying to shake away the sound of surprise. "I mean, right. Good. I'll… Well, I'll handle it appropriately."

"As I'm sure you will." He began to walk towards his bedroom door, and she mechanically mirrored his movements. "Are you following me into my room also?"

"I, what? No… Is this your room?" she asked, pointing towards the large set of doors they both stood before.

"Yes."

"Oh... okay. Have a good night then?" She said the last bit more like a question, backpedalling away from where he stood. "I'll see you around, I guess. And, well, thank you... For not, you know –"

"Being a 'bloody prick'?" he guessed, remembering her choice words from the night prior. The implication made her eyes roll, but the corner of her mouth tugged up ever so slightly.

"Oh, I definitely wouldn't go that far," admitted Granger as the faintest hint of a smile crossed her lips before she turned back in the directions they'd just come from.

"You know your way back?" he questioned, watching the girl's head snap back, appearing stunned by his question. Nearly as surprised as he was for asking it.

"I – yes… I think so." She nodded, pressing back a segment of horrendously messy brown hair behind her ear.

"Goodnight, Granger."

She blinked back at him, still evidently stunned and shooting him another weak smile before turning to leave. Draco realised then, perhaps a bit oddly and through some questionable observations, just how endearing of a feat it was to render her utterly speechless.

* * *

 

Hermione arrived back to her room as predicted. Thankfully, with little problems retracing her previous steps throughout the hallways and easily finding the correct staircase which she needed to take. The only thing which confused her was Malfoy's parting words – strangely considerate and lacking in their usual harshness when he bid her goodnight. Though honestly, perhaps it was the circumstance in general that actually held all the puzzlement. She was horrendously befuddled by the entire thing.

Entering inside the suite, she faced head on with the direct cause of that bewilderment; sitting complacently on her bed with tiny legs that swung back and forth. Simply waiting for Hermione to return, or so it seemed.

"Mipsey!" she hissed in a lowered tone, making the elf's triangular ears stick up as she jumped off the bed.

"Yes, Miss –"

"Have you gone mental?" another whisper came out as she closed the door behind her. She hadn't meant for the question to sound so severe or flow with any harshness, truthfully, but Hermione was slowly learning that her once impeccable filter had apparently gone missing.

"Mental?" repeated Mipsey with innocent eyes, strolling up to where Hermione now stood. "What does Miss Hermione mean?"

"Mipsey, I know you were the one who locked us in the library... And then afterwards blamed someone else –"

"Mipsey didn't lie, Miss," the elf explained precisely. "She just omitted the truth... Blinky _did_ cast the locking charm; Mipsey just told Blinky to. Didn't take much convincing... Not much at all."

"But _why_?"

"Miss Hermione needs a friend in this place. She said so herself."

"I was talking about _you_!" she groaned, taking on a more calm manner before proceeding. "You can't just lock two people in a library together and expect them to become best mates overnight –"

"Oh, Mipsey didn't expect so."

"Well, whatever it was you expected ultimately backfired... considering you came in and undid everything five minutes later."

"Oh no. It didn't backfire," said Mipsey as if the vague words were enough of an explanation.

"You could have been brutally punished if Malfoy decided to press the issue," Hermione paused, shivering at the thought. "That was a stupid risk to take. Whatever the goal may have been."

"Oh, Mipsey knows Miss Hermione wouldn't let that happen," the elf explained, apparently believing in such a wild insinuation and holding far too much faith than was likely warranted.

"You give me way too much credit..."

"But Mipsey is right! Besides, Mipsey already punished herself in advance. See?"

The elf held out her right arm to gesture towards the tiny blemishes covering it, which Hermione recognised as scattered burn marks varying in severity. Perhaps from a candlestick, or perhaps from magic. It looked gruesomely painful whichever the case may be, and she cringed at such an ungodly visual.

"Look...whatever idea I may have given you," Hermione began, squatting down until she was eye-level with Mipsey. "Just, forget what I said before. I'll come visit you, even after I leave here. Even if the Malfoys refuse it... I'll find a way, alright? Please, just promise me you won't do anything reckless like this again."

"Of course," Mipsey bowed her head. A common gesture of respect Hermione was becoming all too familiar with.

Despite all the unnecessary spats with Malfoy, she had to admit at least one good thing would come from staying there: invaluable, real-life fieldwork with the creatures she fought so passionately for. She had so much progress still to be made with lawmaking and public outreach programmes; it was almost overwhelming to consider. But being around Mipsey was fuelling her passions. Making her remember why she ever got a job working for the magical creature's department in the first place. It was worth it. _They_ were worth it. Caring, intelligent, free thinking creatures still exposed to the horrors of modern day slavery. _One day,_ she vowed, she would change that.

"Good." Hermione visibly relaxed. "Because Merlin, I can't stand the thought of you being physically punished by them or yourself –"

"Young Master Malfoy wouldn't have hurt Mipsey," she quickly interjected. "Mipsey knew that all along."

Hermione snapped her mouth shut, realising it wasn't only _herself_ that Mipsey held far too much faith in.

"Mipsey remembers what Miss said before… She thinks maybe Miss Hermione should also."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"It would be pretty lonely here without company," Mipsey repeated her words from earlier that day, a calm edge to them which drew in further consideration. "Maybe Miss Hermione isn't the only one who thinks so."

* * *

 

Hermione knew sleep wasn't going to come easy that night. And perhaps she was forcing herself far too early and far too hard. _Likely_ – but it still didn't change the fact that her body was screaming at her over how exhausted she felt. For what reason, she was unaware. Especially considering most of her day (minus the incident with Malfoy and Mipsey) was spent lounging around in her room or the library. Reading, just as the day prior had been spent.

And just like night prior, a sudden noise amongst the silent blackness caused Hermione to startle. But instead of turning the disruption into a repeat escapade around the Manor, she decided to take on a different approach. A braver one: seek out the source of such ruckus and tell them to bloody well be quiet.

Merlin, it was nearly midnight by the time she finally arose from bed to initiate her investigation. Sleeplessness would soon be the death of her; it was turning her into a madwoman, slowly but surely. Though, this time around at least, she felt like a braver than average madwoman, with her wand drawn and a speck of curiosity flickering within her eyes.

Hermione minded her wand's illumination as she opened the door, noting happily that the four women from the portrait outside were all fast asleep and snoring. Perfect. No nosey questions or bothersome slander to worry about from them.

Creeping out from her room, she heard yet another sound, originating from a closed door across the hallway. Hermione glanced towards one in particular; a clear recognition of the tiniest beam of light which shone beneath its bottom crack. She debated on trying to unlock and open the door herself but argued against it. Someone (or _something_ ) had to be in there, and she was dubious that they'd enjoy being barged in on. So instead, Hermione chose equally as barmy of a move.

She knocked.

The pitter-patter of footsteps made Hermione's heartbeat quicken, but she boldly stood her ground, not allowing herself a shred of nervousness until the door finally cracked.

"Can I help you?"

She tried to search through over a dozen things to say right then, finally deciding on potentially the lamest of them all. "Oh, hi there."

"Hello."

Bloody hell, was he _everywhere_?

"Do you ever sleep?" Another lame retort fell into the air.

"Do you?" Malfoy's quip replaced it.

Well, he did have a point there.

She explained quickly, "Sorry, I thought I heard something. A noise."

_How descriptive._

That _something_ was clearly him. Merlin, and right across from her room no less? Wasn't his bedroom downstairs? Not that she was an expert in the Manor's layout by any means, but she knew this most certainly was not it.

"I'll try to be quieter." His words nearly floored her, more relaxed and docile than she expected him to be capable of creating.

"Wait!" Hermione's hand flew up to catch the door before he closed it. "Were you up here last night, too?"

"Yes," Malfoy answered.

"But I thought your room was downstairs –"

"This is my study," he corrected before she could finish, still barricading the door with his tall frame. She didn't know if he was attempting to look intimidating or if such a stance came without effort, but either way – it didn't work to keep her from peering over his shoulder and inside.

The room was dimly lit, a potions workbench and a large cauldron being the focal point of where her eyes honed in on. She could see two opened cabinets filled with various coloured vials – randomised brewing ingredients and tools spanning their cluttered shelves. Or at least, that's what it looked like from her position outside in the hallway. A part of her wanted a better view, but the rational part of her knew better than to ask for one.

 _Of course,_ she thought silently to herself. He needed some way to preoccupy his time within the unnecessarily large household. Then again, it wasn't exactly the most settling fact to learn that he was so bloody close-by. Although, it did make more sense as to why he had accused her of going in there and snooping through his things earlier.

"Did you need something else?" he finally interrupted, catching her eyeballing the room behind him before she allowed her gaze to snap back.

If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd swear she caught the faintest hint of Firewhisky lingering on his breath. Then again... perhaps she _didn_ _'_ _t_ know any better.

Mipsey's words popped back into her head, but she willfully ignored them.

A strange contemplation crossed over; a consideration of actually staying to talk, but she soon dismissed it. Maybe she was lonelier than she wanted to admit but – more likely – it was induced by the millions of questions hanging around which remained unanswered. About the situation. About his family. His home – even him... It was insane, Hermione knowing the endeavour would likely end in more heated banter. But still, she wondered.

"No," she shook her head. Any conversation which didn't end in her wanting to strangle him should likely be considered a success. No matter how meaningless. "Goodnight, Malfoy. Oh and um, thanks again... For earlier."

"For what?" To her surprise he pressed further before she could walk off, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe.

 _For being so un-prattish for thirty whole seconds_ , but she decided against saying that part of the impromptu reply.

"For not getting Mipsey in trouble. I know caring about house-elf sanctity is probably not exactly your forte –"

"So you're under the false impression that I want them all beaten and maimed, are you?"

"No!" she quickly objected, wondering how he always managed to do that. To take her innocent words and spin them like a broken record, skipping over the most crucial segments of melody. "I just meant, well – I was pleasantly surprised, was all."

"Yes, well – don't go handing out any of your bloody house-elf liberation propaganda to me, Granger. I couldn't care less."

"Oh, believe me... I know." She rolled her eyes, a memory popping up in her mind from years prior. "You've already made that clear before. I don't need any more proof of your talented badge-making skills slipped into my schoolbag to remind me this time –"

"What?" he questioned.

She paused, waiting for him to start sneering over the reference from their schooldays; to make a joke at her expense. No such teasing came, and when she glanced up to prepare for his condescending glare, all she found was a genuine look of anticipation.

He waited for her to answer.

But damn it, she didn't even want to say the reference aloud.

The memory still made her shudder – and what she hated even more than _it_ , was the very real fact that she'd been so shaken up by something so trivial at one point in time. Maybe S.P.E.W. wasn't her greatest success story as far as making headway in house-elf rights, but that one fateful afternoon after potions, when she pulled out a charmed badge from her schoolbag, (which someone had _vandalised_ and left for her to find) nearly wanted to make her throw in the towel right there.

 _Society for the Prompt Extermination of Repulsive Mudbloods_ : an acronym which any dimwitted twelve-year-old could've come up with.

Throw in the towel, and bang whatever immature idiot had created it over the head with a beater's bat. She hadn't told Harry or Ron at the time. They were busy; distracted with something else, as so often was the case back then. So she kept the aggravating incident to herself and destroyed the newly altered badge, lest she bothered anyone else with her own stupid problems.

She should have dropped the topic altogether, but something was pressing at her to continue. Unfinished business, a confrontation that never happened. Not as if she was thirsty for revenge over the petty incident, but the way Malfoy was looking at her so expectantly forced the words out.

"That S.P.E.W. badge you got ahold of back in fifth year… Look, I know it was you. And I know your lot was just trying to rile me up, as usual –"

"That idiotic club which only _you_ were a member of? Why would I take one of those things?"

 _Lies._ He knew exactly what she was referencing; she could tell.

"It was not an idiotic club," said Hermione, feeling her face flush with annoyance. "It was an _organisation_. And for your information, Harry and Ron were members, too –"

"And what shining references those two serve as."

A nasty quip found its way into her mouth, but she stopped herself – they could keep doing this for hours if she allowed it. Having the exact same argument about a hundred different events, a hundred times over. It would change nothing. Talking about the past with Malfoy was more pointless than trying to teach a Hippogriff table manners.

"Forget it," she sighed, conquered by his arrogance and knowing better than to walk herself down this path for the second night in a row. "Not like it matters anymore anyway. Goodnight, Malfoy."

And just before she turned to leave, he stopped her mid-pivot.

"It was Pansy, you know."

"What?"

She turned around, blinking back and half expecting him to retreat into his study and leave her with more questions than answers. It seemed to be the case so often with him anyway. She searched his face to find sheer dishonesty plastered across it, but instead, he looked almost sad. Almost...

She prepared herself to pose another 'what? _'_ But instead, he answered: "She was quite proud of herself for that one. Couldn't keep her fucking mouth shut about the whole thing to save her life of course. Used to laugh about it to everyone in the Slytherin common room... as if she was so horrendously clever for thinking up such an insult."

"And you didn't think so, too?" she asked.

"No," he claimed. "I told her she was an idiot... That if you showed a teacher and they found out, she would probably get her prefect's badge stripped. Not to mention _how_ many house points thrown down the toilet."

"And since when did you concern yourself with morality when it comes to practical jokes?"

"It's got nothing to do with morals. It has to do with sense... something Pansy had very little of," he explained, that unreadable look flashing across his face once more. "She never did know when to just bloody give up."

"Oh?" said Hermione, looking straight up at the blond. Her words were quiet, a strange smirk setting on her lips. "Sounds like somebody else I know..."

"Yeah," he boldly affirmed. "Me too."


	10. Hypocrisy

Daphne Greengrass was no stranger to the stomach-plummeting sensation of dread. It was sickeningly familiar by that point, and _this_ could certainly categorise as such.

She stumbled backwards onto the smooth finish of a wooden chair which sat opposite her bedroom vanity and let out an almost inaudible groan. The post owl which arrived like clockwork each morning brought with it a delivery of four items that particular day.

Four items, and panic. Pure, unadulterated, panic rising from within her chest at the small stack of mail clutched within her hands.

Once seated, she tossed aside the top two letters – discarding them onto the cluttered desktop covered with old magazines and empty potions phials. One was from her grandmother, the other an advertisement for new and improved Sleekeazy's Hair Potion: redesigned formula, 'now with less greasy after-feel'. She ran a hand throughout her own blonde locks, perfectly straight minus a few odd kinks and one too many broken off split ends which frizzed out towards the top.

Daphne knew if she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror right then, she'd likely be horrified. Mornings were never her friend, and the now visible worry engraved across her forehead only accentuated her already sunken in blue eyes. Her mother would simply yell at her to drink more water – as if dehydration was ever the root cause of such a psychical flaw.

But there was always a simple solution to every 'flaw', wasn't there? Bags under your eyes? Drink more water. Blemish on your forehead? An acne potion or glamour charm will do the trick. Hair a tad messy today? Run a few drops of Sleakeasy's through it, and you'll be right as rain in no time.

Unfortunately, some flaws weren't so easy to fix.

The third letter – though entirely blank on the outside – she didn't need to open first to reveal the source of. The cream-coloured envelope and a large inscription on the top left corner were both dead giveaways. Thank goodness her mail got delivered straight to her window, lest her mother thrown the whole thing into their blazing fireplace upon its arrival.

It was simple this time around, as they typically were. With no 'sincerely' or 'love' as a farewell parting to give away the sender's identity. As of late, she was becoming more and more grateful for the insisted confidentiality.

Still, at the very least, a 'Dear Daph' might be nice...

_I got another one late last night, and you need to read it for yourself this time. Come over today. Mum's gone until next Wednesday; we'll have the place all to ourselves._

Simple, but nauseatingly vague.

Normally, a letter which such departing words would cause her to flush with anticipation, but all this one did was induce a fluttering in her stomach which felt more like intestinal upset than excitement. The source of such a visit would not be for recreation, but rather it would be for necessity.

Daphne tried desperately not to think on it.

The fourth letter, in contrast, was addressed from _herself_ and produced the highest levels of anxiety out of the entire lot. A beautiful and shiny white envelope to which she already knew the contents of before opening. Staring back at her like the gallows stared back at oncoming prisoners... Fighting and challenging every leftover shred of strength she had reserved.

Suddenly, the opening of her door stole Daphne's attention away. She set down the dazzling piece of mail and focused on the figure which waltzed straight into her room without so much as a warning knock or voiced greeting. She recognised the identical envelope waving around in the air – this one far past being ripped open with its colourful and dreaded contents posed right alongside.

Another groan escaped from Daphne's lips.

"Look what came in the mail – oh! You got one, too," squealed a high-pitched voice, both far too awake and far too pleasant for the type of day this was quickly becoming. "Mum must've sent us both one then – just for fun. Were there extras or something?"

For _fun_.

Right, that was the word.

"Considering the five hundred copies she had ordered – I'd assume yes," Daphne ran her finger along the smooth plane of the wedding proclamation. _Her_ wedding proclamation. The announcement which led straight to her own personal set of gallows – signed, sealed, and sent off.

Astoria beamed. Daphne tugged up the corners of her lips into a tight-lipped smirk.

Even _if_ a Save-the-Date could be considered good enough reason for such enthusiasm, she was nearly positive this one would be excluded from that category. At least in her mind. At least for a marriage made in the shadows of falsehood like this one.

_Better than a life cloaked in humiliation..._

She shuddered at the invasive thought.

In truth, the sham was neither arranged nor forced. _Coaxed_ was the choice term to describe how Daphne landed in the position she now faced – her name splayed across a thick piece of parchment with text reading, 'The Greengrass and Flint Union' in beautiful, shimmering gold letters. Coming soon to a miserable and overpriced wedding venue near you: 18 August 2001. Gods, it had a date attached to it now. It would be marked on calendars, etched in minds.

But it was her obligation – a choice which far outweighed the alternative. Duty always overrides desires; the potential Minister for Magic's daughter does not need scandal attached to her reputation.

Merlin, she could practically hear her mother's voice echoing the obnoxious reproach right there.

"I don't even think I know five hundred people..." Daphne offhandedly whispered.

"Mum and Dad do, though."

"Mum _thinks_ she does."

Daphne placed her elbows on her vanity's cluttered surface, nearly forgetting about the formerly opened letter that she now attempted to shove between the glossy pages of _Quidditch Today's_ newest edition. It was too late. Her sister's attention had perked.

"What's that?" Astoria asked with glued eyes, trying to read the large scrawl as if she even needed an answer to that question – as if she didn't know.

"Nothing," muttered Daphne, pushing away her Quidditch magazine with the handwritten message wedged between its covers. A desperate attempt to signify its insignificance.

To Daphne's relief, Astoria didn't press.

"I'm making breakfast," her sister announced in a comforting voice. "Mum and Dad are downstairs already. Come down also?"

"In a minute," Daphne nodded, her seated posture spinning to face the younger witch head on.

She studied the girl for a brief moment, the terrible older sister inside her partially wanting to push out the eighteen-year-old and slam the door shut in her face. Sometimes just looking at the smile which seemed a permanent fixture on the girl's pretty face was a trying event.

Blue eyes and dimples – that's all.

That's where the similarities between the pair ended. While Daphne's hair was a mousey blonde, Astoria's was a soft brown. While Astoria adored occupying her days with cooking and sewing, Daphne wouldn't be caught dead doing 'servants work' (as their mother once accurately phrased towards her youngest). Astoria was stunning; the most wonderful future wife a man could hope for, and Daphne was... just Daphne. That's it. Nothing special and certainly nothing beautiful.

Though, Merlin, how wonderful it felt to be told otherwise.

"Hm, too busy sending love notes back and forth to –"

" _Shut up,"_ Daphne hissed, glancing towards her bedroom door despite already knowing that her parents were downstairs – likely chatting over black coffee and the _Daily Prophet_ as so many mornings were typically spent.

"Okay, well when you're finished with _that_ ," Astoria gestured in a circular motion towards the obscured letter. Her smile was evident, her tone more playful and carefree than Daphne assumed fitting. "Come downstairs for food. I'm cooking your favourite, okay?"

"I will," the blonde promised.

"I've got work today at eleven," Astoria said. "So, hurry up, yeah?"

Astoria's servant-hobbies came alongside a servant's job: bartending for Madam Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks on weekends. Their father would claim it to be good character building skills; their mother nearly whined her way into Astoria quitting on a bi-weekly basis.

Though, if either knew the real reason why she did it, they'd both turn in the resignation notice for her.

"Why?" Daphne prodded. "Getting off early so you can spend time with that Mudblood boyfriend of yours afterwards?"

Ah, projection truly was one of the uglier defence mechanisms – rearing its head once more between the two sisters. How many times could they tip-toe the same topics without any true resolve? Though Astoria was usually the one who tiptoed; Daphne stomped.

"He's not my boyfriend," Astoria said the phrase, perhaps not for the hundredth time, but damn near close. "We're friends –"

"You're talking to _me,_ Stori. Remember that."

"We are, though..." Astoria shifted uncomfortably, finding the hem of her blouse and toying with it. "Friends, I mean."

"Yes, well... I've never doubted that part," said Daphne. "I just don't see how being friends with that Creevey boy warrants you Apparating into Hogsmeade twice a week –"

"It's not just because of Dennis!" Astoria argued. "I like working there; it's fun. He just... He comes in and visits sometimes. That's all –"

"Because he's still at Hogwarts! You've graduated already... How is that even remotely appealing?"

Astoria's self-rationalisation quickly kicked in as it so often did: "He graduates this year! And fuck, he's only nine months younger than me."

"Sure," Daphne agreed. "Nine months younger and a Mudblood –"

"Will you stop using that fucking word already? Merlin, I always forget how brainwashed you are until you start spewing it out like a fucking punctuation mark."

"Oh? And using the word 'fuck' is so much better?" she ticked with her mouth, a horrific mannerism which reminded her something of their mother. "Please, Astoria… If hypocrisy had a name –"

"It would be Daphne Greengrass."

* * *

 

***Day Four***

_Sorry we haven't contacted sooner. Things are going quite well. Hope everything is pleasant on your end._

_P.S. Don't Owl back. More news soon to come._

Three sentences.

Four days and all she got from Estelle and Greengrass regarding their current standing (and progress for that matter) was three sodding sentences. Five if you counted the PS... Which she didn't.

They had promised to keep her posted. They had promised her information! And yet, she had nothing to show for any of it. Nothing to help calm the plethora of worries she had initially presented them with or to answer any of the swarming questions which plagued her mind daily. How lovely. It seemed as if promised updates, too, were used as a bargaining chip to their advantage.

By the third day with nothing, she wanted to scream bloody murder from atop the skyline terrace connected to her room. By dawn of day four, she contemplated swallowing her pride and asking one of the Malfoys to borrow an owl – sending out a strongly worded letter, blowing the entire thing, and demanding they return her home immediately. She'd just take her chances with the stalker. She was resourceful; she was capable.

Though of course, that plan was rubbish. Hermione knew she wouldn't do something so careless without any better thought up proposal.

She simply ignored the tugging suspicion that the lack of information was due to a lack of development.

A full day had passed in which she'd successfully managed to avoid Malfoy (along with every other human being on the planet, for that matter). She couldn't quite decide if that had made her day go by better or worse – or why she even felt the need to question it.

However, _pleasant_ was still not the particular adjective Hermione would choose to describe her tenure there thus far. Mind-numbing. Tedious. Boring. Those fit better. She'd never been this unproductive in her life.

She was thankful for a few things, though:

The library. Her stash of Muggle sweets that quickly dwindled down to nothing due to an unnecessary amount of mindless snacking. The Sleeping Draught which Mipsey had brought to her yesterday, innocently questioning why Hermione was trying to nap in the middle of the afternoon.

Mipsey.

The elf saved her sanity, finding solace in the curious and ever-cheery creature more than she fathomed possible.

Hermione knew more than she assumed any of the Malfoy's could disclose about their youngest house-elf. How Mipsey loved spending time in the garden, tending to the landscape of the home. How her mother sometimes hummed lullabies as she prepared dinner, or how she'd never been past the boundaries of the Manor because older elves were always selected for outings first. The later broke her heart, and when Hermione asked Mipsey where she would go if she were ever given the opportunity, the answer wasn't one she'd been expecting – "Go and visit Miss Hermione, of course."

She didn't understand how it was possible to live your entire life behind locked doors.

Her parents used to claim that they had an 'open door policy' when she was growing up. Perhaps it was to keep a keen eye out – seeing as she would often barricade herself inside her room with a book as a young child. Or perhaps it was just an odd preemptive – in anticipation for the boy-crazed teenage years that never came. Whatever the case was, she never grew up with the belief that it was strange.

Though apparently, it was.

* * *

 

A full twenty-four hours without seeing Granger was a blessing Draco hadn't imagined would annoy him so much.

Who was she to think that she could knock on his study in the middle of the night and interrupt his work? Interrupt his fucking life – as she had already been doing since she'd arrived there. The pretentious, self-righteous Gryffindor thought she could just avoid him, pop up, and then retreat back into nothingness like she was apparently hiding from _him_ as well as this bloody fanboy of hers.

Who in their damn mind would be so interested in Hermione sodding Granger's life to go to such extremes? Clearly, someone who needed a fucking reality check and to be institutionalised. But who? And to what extremes did they even go to?

No.

No, no – absolutely not.

He needed to stop thinking about those redundant questions which seemed to pop up whenever he caught sight of her doorway from across the hall.

He didn't care. He'd already come up with the probable scenarios anyway: some creepy old bloke that sat outside her bedroom window, watching her change, trying to get a peek at what lay beneath her (probably penguin-printed as well…) knickers. But then why didn't they just haul the creep off to Azkaban already? Was the Ministry truly _that_ incompetent?

How could his mother have agreed to this without demanding more details!

" _Because it doesn't matter, Draco. We're not going to associate with her any more than necessary, regardless. What business is it to us?"_

Oh right – just the business of having her live in their bloody home like _nothing_ ever happened there. Like she was some old family friend just paying a visit. As if he hadn't watched her scream, beg, _bleed_ on their drawing room floor less than three years ago.

No, he'd get his answers eventually. He could probably proposition that sodding house-elf to ask her; she'd apparently taken up a friendship with _it_ faster than she had with dumb and dumber back during first year.

Within seconds of the thought, something snapped Draco out of his zoned-out brooding.

_What in the bloody –_

He could hear it from down the hallway, beginning from when he first walked off the ascending staircase and becoming louder with each subsequent step forward. He continued until he could finally make out the soft noise and pinpoint the exact location of where it came from.

Humming.

Soft and shameless humming, coming out of the room right across from his planned destination. He didn't need to question _why_ he could hear the noise from down the hallway; the entrance cracked open large enough for a small child to slip through was a good enough giveaway.

He didn't think twice before pushing open the door and crossing the threshold inside, standing nearby the entryway and gazing on with confusion at the sight which met him.

"What the hell are you doing?"

His question was completely warranted, but her blatant and rude disregard most certainly was _not_.

Granger sat on a sunlit window bench, wedged in the room's cushioned nook with a notebook across her lap and some strange looking earmuffs worn atop her frizzy-haired head.

And Gods, there was still that bloody humming! An obnoxious tune which he questioned was actual music or just some chaotic noise she'd thought up in her head. She ignored him further, so he walked a few steps forward to get a closer look.

"Granger!" he nearly shouted. "Are you deaf or something?"

She looked up from the notebook cradled in her lap, nearly jumping from the sight of him as if a murderer yielding a drawn wand stood where he did now. Maybe that was what she saw him as anyway.

"Oh – sorry," she finally muttered. "Did you say something?"

He took a moment before answering, his eyes gazing around the room in disbelief.

"Did you move the furniture in here?"

_No bloody regard for other people's property._

"Yes... I did actually," she stated with a self-assurance that Draco didn't quite buy. "The room needed a bit of rearranging. Don't you think?"

"No," he spat, hardly processing the question before the disagreement met his tongue.

"My apologies then." Sarcasm soon coated her tone. "I'm sure you regularly spend oh-so-much time in this guest suite versus the other twenty – "

"Twenty-one actually," Draco corrected haughtily.

She rolled her eyes. "You could have knocked first, you know."

"Your door was open."

"Oh…" He swore a blush crept onto her cheeks right then. "Well... that still doesn't give you permission to just come straight into my room without knocking –"

"Are you cold or something?" he interrupted, still trying to figure out why she felt the need to wear that ridiculous headpiece now sitting beside her.

"What? No!"

Draco suppressed a smirk when she mistakenly interpreted his question, looking down at her chest as if expecting some telltale sign of coldness to show through her thin top. Draco's eyes couldn't help but follow, but they snapped up almost instantly.

"Then why were you wearing _those_?"

She glanced down again, this time following his gaze and picking up the item which lay beside her hip. To his surprise, she only giggled into her palm, covering up a massive grin as her eyes flashed back up from her cross-legged position.

"Oh, _these_?"

Draco's furrowed his brows as she dangled the hideous earmuffs in her hand, apparently finding them ridiculously amusing seeing as her smirk didn't waver.

"What's so bloody funny, Granger?"

"You."

"Me?"

"These are _headphones_ , Malfoy," she explained. Draco watched as she shuffled behind her to reach for another object attached by a single string – some small, circular saucer looking device. "You listen to music with them."

Oh, of course. Some ridiculous Muggle contraption. He should have bloody well known.

She mistook his silence for a reason to continue speaking.

"My parents got me this for Christmas last year... It's called a Walkman – well no, that's a brand name actually. It's a CD player. Oh, you probably don't know what that is either, do you? Bugger. Well, it's like a radio. But you can listen to whichever songs and albums you'd like –"

"I didn't ask for an encyclopaedia page on it," Draco barked, watching her mouth snap shut.

"Well, clearly you need one," she shot back, though not with anger. A smile still crept though. "What did you think these were anyway? Earmuffs?"

"Of course not," he lied.

"Here," she held out the Muggle contraption as if posing the ridiculous notion for him to take it. "Have a listen; it's still playing. Go ahead."

Draco stared blankly at the device and her equally as confusing gesture. For one brief instant, he considered it – letting curiosity take over and doing exactly what she suggested. Thankfully, he quickly fought the stupid impulse.

What a load of shit – Granger offering him some worthless Muggle object as if offering up a token of their nonexistent friendship.

He couldn't have thought up a better joke himself.

"As if I'd ever want to listen to your rubbish music on some primitive Muggle radio," he huffed.

"It's not primitive," she argued, scooting up on the window seat and dangling her legs over the edge. "It's fairly new actually. They're huge right now. Well... I mean, at least with –"

" _Muggles_?" he supplied before she could finish, fighting the nagging urge to point out that she might as well be one herself.

She shot him a glare, apparently arriving at the realisation that her impromptu info session was a wasted cause. "Was there something else you needed, Malfoy?"

"You were humming."

She stared up expectantly, anticipating him to continue as if he'd just muttered some unfinished sentence fragment. Something stirred from inside him at the gaping look presented by her probing eyes. Likely annoyance.

Well, of course, annoyance. What the fuck else would it be?

"... And?" she questioned.

"And, so... fuck, just keep your bloody door closed next time."

Without another word, Draco spun on his heels to leave, leaving Granger with the tangled-up contraption in her lap and a newly closed door upon his exit. He took a deep breath before continuing into his study.

_What in Salazar's name was that?_


	11. Undisturbed

"You're positive?"

"I'm pretty sure… yes," Daphne let out a horrendous breath of uncertainty to contradict the statement – her shoulders tensed and feeling like she'd just finished a seven-hour long Quidditch practice. "I told you! We knew this could happen; it's textbook protocol. If the department _did_ send her off somewhere –"

" _Where_?"

"I… I don't know. There's no way to know _where_ –"

"And why the hell not? Your dad's Head Auror at the bloody Ministry! Surely if anyone could figure that out, it'd be you."

She looked down, running her fingers along the soft sheets beneath her. "Not really… It doesn't exactly qualify as an appropriate topic to discuss over breakfast, now does it?"

"Well, make it a dinnertime chat then. I'm not going to play cat and mouse with these mindless Ministry robots for weeks on end – _if_ what you're saying is true."

"They're just doing their jobs…" Daphne felt a pang of guilt swell. "Besides, how would I explain my knowledge over _anything_ regarding this case? Everything surrounding it is confidential. No one outside the department is supposed to know anything."

A traitor. She was a traitor of the highest accord.

"What if you're wrong." It was hardly even a question, more of an accusation. "I mean, honestly. That moronic Gryffindor would get herself killed trying to face Voldemort again before risking her hard-earned title at 'bravest idiot' –"

" _But_ if the threat is deemed large enough, the Ministry would practically force her into it," Daphne countered. "They've done it before with other cases… They'll do anything to avoid a murder on their hands; especially of anyone so significant."

'Persuaded heavily' was the exact annotation Daphne remembered reading off one of the old files. A case from back in the late 60s, one which had long since been solved and closed, now alive solely in the form of dusty old Ministry records. Records which were far too accessible for anyone who made it their mission to read them.

The case files stolen and duplicated from her father's office told much of the same mundane stories: A marriage gone bad; an ex who just couldn't let go; a coworker with some strange obsession. The multitude of Anti-Tracking Spells and Concealment Charms reported on their tattered pages had long since been cashed in on; the investigative tactics used by the Ministry were anticipated and blocked.

But this…

No, unfortunately, this they hadn't planned for.

Daphne finished quietly, "You know that house-elf thing went a step too far –"

"Oh Merlin, not this shit again!" The tone itself might as well have been a punch straight to the face. "It was already fucking _dead_ … It's not _my_ fault my mother insisted on keeping that diseased thing around for so long. At least it's decaying body was 'put to good use' – weren't those your exact words, Daph?"

"Good luck explaining that to the Wizengamot." Daphne began a sarcastic imitation, "…'Oh no, of course, I didn't kill the poor creature. I only stabbed it a few times, post-mortem. That's all.'… That'll go over brilliantly, don't you think?"

"Oh, shut up; quit your dramatics. There won't be a need to explain _anything_. Ever."

There'll be no need because the verdict of guilty would be reached faster than an old memory after dipping into a Pensieve.

 _Guilty_. Because that precisely what they were.

Daphne let out a groan of frustration. "I hope you're right."

"Of course, I am…"

She felt a piece of hair tuck behind her shoulder, the tender motion involuntarily sending a chill down her spine. Daphne glanced up, dark eyes blending into her blue ones.

There was no opportunity to reply before the husky whisper came suddenly:

"You know how much I need you, right?"

Because of her connection to confidential information – but Daphne decided against voicing that suspicion.

"I know," Daphne nodded. "I need you, too."

"Good." The soft touch delivered to her arm induced a whirlwind of confusing emotions. "So, find out if that ridiculous theory of yours is correct."

"And if it is?" questioned Daphne.

"Then find out where they're hiding her."

"But what if I can't –"

"Shhh…" Her lips sealed shut by the press of an index finger. "You're brilliant – I know you can. No more worries right now. Got it?"

"But –"

"Stop it. Right now… Lay back, beautiful."

Daphne's body was pushed against the bed, the hand which reached in-between her thighs and the lips brushing along her earlobes forcing out all cautious doubts in one single instant. Intelligence and self-restraint were both long since gone as her unspoken objection hitched with a low groan in the back of her throat.

"You know how much I need this, don't you?"

The murmur was nearly inaudible, rough and delivered straight into Daphne's ear by a breath of warm air. It was neither about her, nor the teasing motions which drove her back to arch and whimpers to fill the space around them. Daphne felt her smile fall the tiniest bit because of the demanding question. Because of what she knew it implied and what she knew it would never be said in reference to.

Because the words meant something so entirely different to her.

* * *

 

Hermione cast a quick Drying Spell on her hair after she de-steamed the bathroom's gold-trimmed mirror to reveal her reflection staring back. Her damp skin practically needed one also, the wrinkles on her finger pads triggering her to question the saneness of a decision to spend nearly forty-five minutes underneath a constant stream of scalding water. She may as well have been a walking raisin by that point.

But Gods, how the hot water always soothed her into a moment of tranquillity.

Once all nightly rituals had been performed, Hermione exited the bathroom and into the stillness of her adjoining bedroom. She felt guilty for her eagerness towards upcoming sleep, the time not even past ten o'clock and her day not spent doing anything physically strenuous.

 _Mentally_ strenuous was a different story entirely.

It had rained the past two days, and Hemione vowed to herself – if it was even remotely sunny outside tomorrow – she would spend at least a fraction of her time outside. Mipsey could Apparate them into the gardens, or she could walk down to the lake by herself even. She needed fresh air. A different perspective than simply the four walls which currently enclosed her or the one person who somehow always found her.

Malfoy.

Gods, that man was going to give her a bloody aneurysm from pure aggravation before she even got a chance to regain normalcy from this.

His stunt earlier that day made her laugh more so than anything; she almost wanted to question him about it. Question why he stood there with a confused look plastered across his face. Question why he stared at her so intently as she offered him 'rubbish music' on her 'primitive Muggle contraption'. And maybe most of all, question why he constantly seemed to have this defensive stance about _everything._ Was it just some front as if to feign indifference and make her feel like _she_ was the enemy? They had never got along before, but this had to be considered an extenuating circumstance. She was at least _trying_ – damn it, she was. Though, by then, it made little sense as to why.

Why was she so set on cracking the confusing egg which was Draco Malfoy's psyche?

_The confusing egg?_

Merlin, she was becoming delirious.

Hermione sighed, realising no answers would come from that night alone. Perhaps none would come at all; her mother always used to stress, some things were better left undisturbed anyway. Perhaps this was one of them.

_Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus._

It was the silliest thing which could have popped into her mind right then – the Hogwarts motto – a clear representation of how nonsensical she was being. But then again, maybe she had a lesson to learn from it, after all. Never tickle a sleeping dragon; even if the dragon seemingly didn't sleep and tickling meant nothing more than a pleasant hum of her vocal cords.

The thought made her lips purse together into an almost-smile as her eyes flashed over to the coffee table where her journal lay sitting.

The Sleeping Draught which Mipsey had provided touched the skin of her lips before Hermione paused, narrowing her eyes and lowering the phial before tipping it back completely.

_What in Godric's name?_

Unfortunately, it also seemed clear in that exact moment; some things were unable to be left undisturbed.

* * *

 

"Seriously, Malfoy?"

Hermione had crossed the hallway within seconds, almost surprised when the doorknob she grasped didn't present her with resistance as she charged through its closed passageway, guns blazing. She stood near the entrance now, her eyes glazed with annoyance as her assumption of Malfoy being within his study proved correct.

He was sitting at the potion's work bench, three empty phials and a textbook laid out in front of him, blond hair hanging down into his eyes as he studied the book's open pages. His attention snapped up after she'd spoken the challenging words.

"Seriously, Granger?" Malfoy mimicked with a clear twinge of annoyance.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she pressed.

"Me?" he feigned surprise. "You are aware of the social construct in which a closed door indicates for you to knock before entering –"

"Oh no," Hermione waggled her finger in his direction. "No... Absolutely not. You don't get that privilege anymore, you see. Not after earlier today… And certainly not after _now_."

He smirked, and Hermione could tell he knew precisely what she referenced.

"Well, if you hadn't left your door open earlier –"

"Where is it?" Hermione demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. She didn't allow him to finish; she didn't care for him to complete his petty quip regarding his strange demand that her door was to be kept constantly closed.

So what if she had left it open again – if not simply to prove a point – once he'd slammed it shut earlier in the day? He still had no bloody right…

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied, looking back down at his potions book as if she was nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head.

"My CD player," she explained, taking a few steps forward. "It's missing from my room, and I know you took it, Malfoy. Where. Is. It?"

"Me?" he pointed to himself with more feigned shock. "What in the world would I want with your useless Muggle shit?"

"You tell me because I'm genuinely confused… Maybe you could also enlighten me as to why someone would come into my room while I'm showering and _steal_ my personal belongings –"

"How about you ask the thieving house-elf that you adore so much," he interrupted. "Considering she seems to know a lot about plucking items out of one's personal belongings."

So that's what this was? Payback? Curiosity? Malfoy's lifelong goal to make sure he fit the bill perfectly for the most insufferable prat she'd ever met? He was doing a marvellous job thus far.

So then why did his painted-on expression tell a different story?

He was lying, clearly. She knew it as well as he did. But the way he glanced up made Hermione pause the aggravated reply which almost passed by her lips. For some terrible reason, she had the most inappropriate urge to laugh just as she'd done earlier. At everything – at him, at her pettiness, at their ridiculous roundabout bickering which never solved anything.

But she didn't; she didn't laugh, and she didn't try to contend his ludicrous suggestion like she rightly should have. Instead, there was only silence – the wordless air flowing between them more terrible than any blaring argument.

He gazed at her in the same way he had after she'd offered him the Walkman earlier. With a speck of intrigue, a flicker of curiosity. A look Hermione couldn't read, and it perplexed her more than she wished to admit.

The expression wasn't one of anger or glaring disgust. It was the strangest thing she'd ever seen: an open-mouthed smirk with a glint of mischief. He began speaking, and she caught herself unable to form a reply once more.

"Was there something else you wanted, Granger?"

His teeth were ridiculously white. Almost distractingly so; his smile appearing as if ceramic veneers capped their unnaturally straight surface. Dental work which her parents would swoon over… except it wasn't. They'd looked like that since forever ago – a trait which Hermione remembered her thirteen-year-old-self secretively envying, loathing the boy every time he'd mock her horrendous overbite or large front teeth.

 _Clearly, he still deserves that loathing!_ Hermione's mind screamed and she snapped back to reality.

Because there she stood, within Malfoy's study, silent and staring shamelessly at his mouth. What a pity – such a handsome feature ruined by the vile things that passed alongside their perfect structure.

She nearly slapped herself for the impetuous thought. Thankfully, an idea popped into her head right then.

"No, that was all," Hermione breathed, plastering on the fakest smile possible. "Hmmm, and you know, now that I think of it, I probably misplaced it somewhere… How silly of me. Sorry, Malfoy – Enjoy the rest of your night. Keep an eye out, will you?"

Malfoy's eyelid nearly twitched because of her sudden stand down. He always did know how to bite back after heated frustration – but kindness? No, that always seemed to trip him up a fair bit more.

If it was some childish game that he wanted to play, she'd play it better. If he wanted to elicit a reaction from her – she'd get one better.

She'd get his eyebrows to shoot up, his piercing grey eyes to enlarge at the surprise from such undeserved softness. He expected her to shout with fists clenched, but instead, she solicited a different approach.

One which caused her chest to constrict.

Merlin, why was that Cauldron making the room so hot?

"Alright," he said, emulating her calmness. "I will."

Hermione stopped in midstride, forcing herself to halt at the doorway before leaving.

"Thank you. Goodnight," she said sweetly. "Oh – and, Malfoy… Just so you know..."

"What?"

"Track eleven's my favourite on there."

He scowled back, looking as if she stood there speaking a foreign language. Hermione winked, wondering what deity had possessed her to shell out the most ridiculous nonverbal cue possible.

"You know… Just in case you _find_ it, that's all."

* * *

 

Draco raked his fingers roughly through strands of white blond hair once he was alone, nothing more than a bubbling cauldron and his sudden crinkling of the manuscript's pages left to fill the silence. He bent forward, opening a drawer beneath his work desk and removing the item which lay tucked away neatly within its compartment.

He hadn't meant to take it. Why would he? He had no interest in the blasted thing.

But when Granger had left her door open for the _second time_ that day, he went in with every intention of demanding why she felt the dire need to display her presence outright for anyone who walked by.

 _Anyone_ being only him, but he wasn't going to bring up that part.

However, upon entering the room, he saw no Granger. Instead, he found only the sounds of a running shower and her shit splayed out across a table – a journal and that idiotic Muggle music player left for anyone to come in and see.

Not that looking at it was his original plan…

He didn't even know why he was drawn to the stupid thing in the first place; picking up and turning it over as if he actually cared to learn how it worked. Not even Salazar himself knew why he did it: curiously pressing a combination of different knobs on its front facing side until the contraption sprang to life and began making noises.

But when the shower had suddenly stopped, he'd panicked – the stupid Muggle piece of shit wouldn't turn off. He couldn't just leave it playing or else Granger would've _known_ he'd been in her room and go utterly ballistic… So, Draco did the only sensible thing which he'd thought of in that hurried moment.

_Right, about as sensible as going in there in the first place._

In truth, he'd planned to sneak back in and make the return while she was sleeping. He had no intent on _keeping_ it. Why would he?

But now… no, now he'd have to burn the bloody thing.

She knew he took it; she made that fact perfectly evident. Leave it to Granger to notice the tiniest and most useless item missing from her sodding room.

If he gave it back now, it would be an admission of defeat; a representation of remorse. Precisely what she wanted and precisely what he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of. Proving that he cared about her idiotic Muggle _things_ by trying to play some mind game with him.

After all, she had fucking _winked_ at him. For Salazar's sake, was she drunk or something? Draco made a mental note to check his liquor cabinet at some point to verify Granger hadn't done some prying herself. For that had to be the only explanation why she had stood within his study, staring at him like a bleeding leper as she chewed at her lip.

Draco pushed out the distracting thoughts and focused on the item now displayed atop his potions workbench.

He was rather proud of himself. He'd figured out how to turn it both on _and_ off – proving Granger blatantly wrong about just how primitive the object was – manufactured so that even a five your old could likely operate it.

He toyed with the device for a split second, flipping it over and hitting the newly discovered switch to cause a muffled sound to begin playing. A part of him wanted to fling it against a wall. However, another part of him, the annoyingly curious part, somehow won out with little persuasion necessary.

* * *

 

Track eleven was, in fact, rubbish.

Complete and utter rubbish that Draco wasn't even positive constituted as music, even less than whatever ruddy tune Granger was humming earlier. It was wailing with an upbeat; words that apparently Muggles were simpleminded enough to consider clever lyrics. A testimony to their inferiority – even their music radiated with ill taste.

_So then stop listening…_

But when that tiny little number changed to sixteen, he couldn't help but press the left arrow – after figuring out that it made the thing go back a song previous.

Fine, so track fifteen wasn't terrible.

In fact, it was so not-terrible enough that he might have pressed the back arrow again. And again. Until finally, he allowed the remainder of the songs to play out.

Not that he would ever admit that to Granger. No, she couldn't know – his giving in to temptation by listening to the stupid thing. He'd have to destroy the evidence now. Maybe frame her trusty house-elf sidekick? He could probably just order the thing to falsely confess to taking it, though it was doubtful she'd believe a word.

Draco pushed down the consideration, wondering why he even bothered to care in the first place. He could toss the thing off a roof and watch it shatter to pieces without feeling a shred of guilt. The girl wasn't poor; she could buy another or Confound a Muggle as to easily get a new one.

It was late by the time he finally turned in for the night. Draco tucked the device back into his drawer and decided the whole tossing it off the roof thing or likewise destruction could wait until tomorrow.

He exited his study, smirking to himself when his eyes flashed to Granger's door. It was finally closed, unlike the past two times. Thank Salazar – who bloody left their bedroom door wide open anyway?

He turned to head in the direction of his own room when a noise coming from behind Granger's door stopped him from walking any further. This time though, it wasn't humming. The noise was more of a whispered voice, sounding something like an actual conversation.

Was there someone in there with her? Who in the fuck could she possibly be talking to? It was bloody late; did she sneak someone in or something?

No, that was preposterous. The wards were impermeable; no one even knew she was staying there…

Or did they?

Did she owl her Gryffindor gang of misfits about his home being her newest bed and breakfast destination, and they'd lost their wits about it – swooping in now to rescue her from such a disparaging fate?

The thoughts were laughable, but bloody hell, he could swear she was still talking; his ear pressed up against the door, trying to listen to her stifled words. Frustrated and uncaring about much else, (save for finding out the source of such ruckus) he cracked open the door.

Granger's voice came through loud and clear:

"Stop."

Draco did just that, halting dead in his tracks and questioning his mental soundness right then. His body stood frozen in the entryway, his eyes gazing into the blackness of her room as light from the hallway pooled in.

There was no one in there with her. Unless they were lying in the darkness together; the consideration alone nearly enough to turn his knuckles white from the tightened grip of his wand. Draco had to force himself not to barge in and light up the entire bedroom. Thankfully, from what he could barely make out, there was only one body outlined in the blackness surrounding her bed.

"Were you talking to yourself?" he asked into the dark room.

"STOP!"

"I'm not coming any closer, relax!" Draco replied, holding up his hands as if to wave a white flag. "I heard you talking –"

"No…"

"Yes," he argued. "I did. Don't bloody lie. I thought… well, it doesn't matter. Go back to sleep, Granger. Fuck – it's already past three."

"I hate you."

Draco had almost shut the door fully before her words hit like a speeding boulder. He didn't know why they stung so much – or even why they did at all. Of course, she hated him. The fact should have been written in the stars themselves it was so blatantly obvious. Why wouldn't she?

"Trust me," he muttered through clenched teeth, wondering why the reply seemed so difficult to form. "The feeling's mutual."

"No…"

"What do you mean 'no'?" Draco spat. How dare she challenge that? How dare she question it? Of course, he hated her – she was infuriating – annoying, a know-it-all, everything he was raised to despise…

A war and the wreckage of his shattered reputation couldn't change that.

Could it?

"I HATE YOU!"

Draco took a step back from the forcefulness of her reply, the cool sting nearly unbearable by that point.

"Bloody fucking hell, calm down!" Draco felt his blood begin to boil, still speaking into the darkness and not daring to cross over the carpet inside. "Is this seriously about that Muggle radio thing? Christ, Granger – fine. You win. I'll fucking give it back, alright? If it's really _that_ important to you –"

"No, please! Stop it – get off. GET OFF ME!"

The stomach curdling shriek which passed through Draco's ears was easily one of the most excruciating sounds he'd ever heard. A horrific reminisce of Easter break during his seventh year – the same pitch, in the same place, by the same person – her screams transporting him back to that infamous day easier than anything possibly could.

And it needed to stop.

Now.

Immediately.

Upon realising her dark figure was still asleep and thrashing between the covers, he bolted faster than a brand new Nimbus on Christmas morning, lacking any and all composure in that one impulsive move.

Draco ran inside the room, arriving at her bedside faster than he'd ever come to admit.

* * *

 

" _Say it!"_

" _No!"_

" _Say it!" the man yelled. "Say you want me, you fucking little whore. Say you bloody_ _ **love**_ _me –"_

" _I HATE YOU!" Hermione screamed back as he hovered above her._

" _Tsk-tsk. What a shame, gorgeous. You'll either live loving me, or you'll die trying to fight this. Trying to fight_ _ **us**_ _. You know you want me – you stubborn little fool."_

_He was quoting those bloody letters again as Hermione trashed underneath his grip, nearly paralysed from fear. "No, please! Stop it – get off. GET OFF ME!"_

_He obliged, but she couldn't get another word through edgewise before his Crucio hit, the man's evil cackle melding with her screams as pain seared through every vein – pumping through her heart in tune with each weak gasp escaping her lungs._

"Granger…"

" _I told you not to run."_

"GRANGER!"

" _Please…"_

" _I told you, you can't outsmart me. I will have you, one way or another. Dead or alive –"_

"GRANGER, WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

Hermione's eyelids shot open, gasping for air as both hands flew up to the pair of arms on either side of her own, shaking violently as if to demand her renewed consciousness.

Gone was the murky face of her attacker, and in its place now hovered one she almost didn't recognise – be it her blurry vision adjusting to the room's darkness or the genuinely concerned face she'd never seen worn by Draco Malfoy – she'd never truly know.

For that one millisecond, time stood completely still. Lying beneath the broad frame which sat adjacent, her hands clinging to his forearms for dear life, as if she was going to slip back into that other reality if she even thought about letting go.

Until she finally did.

Hermione sat up in bed, trying to regain some type of regularity in her breathing as brown eyes stayed locked to dim pools of grey. She could make out his outline now, and she waited for the belittling remark that she knew was coming. That she knew always came.

Only it didn't. Further silence passed between them, Hermione's uneven breaths and Malfoy's icy gaze being their only discernable responses.

And suddenly, without any forewarning or logical initiation, she crumbled to pieces like a toppling avalanche. Furious at herself; humiliated by the embarrassing display; weakened because of a lingering nightmare; confused as to how the dancing glow of moonlight against pale skin did unmentionable things to each sharp plane of his face.

_What?_

Venerable. Weak. Overemotional. Stubborn. _Stupid_.

_Merlin, what's wrong with me?_

And just as she would if Harry or Ron were the ones occupying the edge of her bed, she bent over and pressed her forehead again the nearest shoulder to lean on, silent tears spilling over and onto ridiculously soft threads of fabric.

It wasn't even a forethought; there was no deliberate planning involved, only an irrational impulse. She wept softly to keep from exploding, to keep from bottling things up and pretending that she was okay. That everything was always _okay_.

And so, she waited, with tears stinging her eyes and panic clutching at her chest as the blond completely froze.

She waited for his harsh words to snap her back to her senses, for Malfoy to illuminate just how irrational she was being and to shove her filthiness away from whatever expensive shirt he had on that day. Gods, what was she doing? She looked like a complete nutter right then.

So helpless…

So weak.

When he pivoted ever so slightly to force her head off his shoulder, it was in the opposite direction which she expected. Hermione's breath halted as she felt her tear-stained cheek run alongside his chest until it rested perfectly against his rising and falling sternum.

When two arms gently snaked around her hunched-over body she nearly crumbled all over again, her quiet cries morphing into sobs because _Gods_ – why was she even doing this and why was he still bloody there? Because Malfoy showing her a shred of humanity was not something she needed right then. Or ever. Never did she need that. It felt wrong – unnatural. Completely bizarre.

So then why did his arms around her feel almost… normal?

Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't she?

Why was he allowing her to fall to pieces without giving her a single sign or signal to go off?

No answers came, and when Hermione looked up from behind wet eyes, the only thing which met her gaze was another blurry and unreadable expression, though this one softer. Completely unfamiliar coming from Draco Malfoy, but somehow strangely soothing. The only thing which lit his face was streaks of moonlight and a dim glow originating from the hallway outside.

Hermione froze this time, speechless and unable to form coherent thoughts.

He was close now. So bloody close; his own rough breaths and racing heartbeat morphing together with hers as he forced the most hypnotising eye-contact she'd ever endured. His scent was intoxicating, trace hints of cologne mixed with something else, but bloody hell, she couldn't for the life of her think straight enough to decipher what that _something_ was. She couldn't think straight enough to do _anything_. She couldn't speak; she couldn't breathe.

And so, she pulled away.

Merlin, she pulled away because if she didn't – one of them surely would have leant straight in.


	12. Think What You Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 peeps: This is the last chapter from my massive upload - all the ones following will be current postings. 
> 
> A/N: Finally! An update!
> 
> Thank you all for your amazing responses over the last chapter; I was quite literally blown away by the massive amounts of support! So much love goes out to all who reviewed. This chapter's a little more lighthearted (ish) than the ones prior, so hopefully you enjoy that aspect. :)
> 
> So far, I've put headers in the Dramione segments whenever it changes over into a new day, and for now, I'm sticking with it. It helps me keep track of the overall timeframe and (hopefully) makes it easier for the reader to know if something is happening within the same day or not.
> 
> I know it feels like Hermione has been there weeks already, but she hasn't lol This chapter begins with the end of day four (technically day five since it's like 3 am) picking up right where we last left off.
> 
> Enjoy! xD

Hermione felt her back press against the headboard, her body scooting up so high in bed she sat entirely atop one of the pillows. She had to be dreaming. Her imagination was simply running amuck more so than usual…

Except the scowl which met her damp eyes could easily argue otherwise. Like some type of flipped switch, her actions turned off any sympathy originating from the boy now occupying one edge of her bed.

_Hardly a boy anymore, is he?_

Thoughts more impulsive than actions, Hermione tried to ignore the sinking feeling that came when he stood up.

"Malfoy, wait…"

His name broke through the silence like a crash of thunder, Hermione wondering if she truly expected for him to halt in mid-step and turn around. As if she had anything planned to say after that… as if she actually wanted him to stay and talk.

When her door slammed shut with more force than necessary – not even a second backwards glance given – she tried to suppress the rush of emotion previously swallowed down, now bubbling back up to the surface once more. Questions lingered, but she pushed them out. Thoughts invaded, but she wilfully ignored them.

Left with an even worse feeling than what she woke with, she took a moment to calm her racing adrenaline.

It was like one of those moments when your balance unexpectedly falters, foot slipping down a narrow staircase or tripping because of some uneven pavement. A clutch of panic; that momentary flash of anxiety before your reflexes kick in, catching yourself and questioning why your tightened chest muscles enclose a heart which still wouldn't stop pounding. Because you didn't fall. Because you caught yourself – you were fine.

But it didn't matter; that lingering pulse of adrenaline knew no different.

* * *

 

"What are you doing in here?" Astoria's question came suddenly.

Daphne slammed shut the drawer which her fingers were rifling through and looked towards the unexpected voice.

"Huh?"

"What are you doing?"

"Oh –" Daphne hesitated, pausing briefly. "I lost my phoenix quill somewhere. I'm looking for it."

"In dad's office?" Astoria asked doubtfully, standing within the entryway and not moving any closer. "Did you lose your wand and the ability to cast a Summoning Charm also?"

"I left my wand upstairs… You're home early," Daphne interjected, changing the subject. "How was work?"

"Slow. Even for a Sunday – I left a few hours early," Astoria said plainly, changing the subject right on back. "Did you come home last night?"

"Of course I did," she lied like it was easier than breathing. "Why?"

"Mum was looking for you this morning," explained Astoria. "Said you weren't in your room when she went in and checked."

"I was out running errands," said Daphne. "I left early."

"Good thing that's what I told her then… you're welcome."

Daphne glanced up, seated in her father's large office chair and looking towards the doorway with an appreciative expression flashing over. Astoria's smirk was perhaps the most telling of all.

"You know," her sister continued. "I'm not going to keep lying to them, Daph. If you're gonna be stupid – at least be smart about it."

* * *

  
***Day Five***

The gardens were beautiful, though Hermione expected no less. What she could see from her balcony did little justice for the setting; arrays of perfectly arranged roses, lilies, orchids, and other flowers she didn't know the names of spanned throughout rows of winding pathways – a display too perfect for magic not to be the major constituent in.

Mipsey was ecstatic when Hermione had summoned her with the mention of clear skies and how she needed to stretch her legs. The elf had jumped at the opportunity, grabbing Hermione's hand and Apparating them into the gardens before the witch had a chance to make a formal request or suggest otherwise.

Mipsey now spoke openly about the bed of flowers they stood near, Hermione not having the heart to tell her that she didn't pay much mind to the Saffron Crocus or the Juliet Rose, or the other hundreds of plants regularly tended to around the estate. She relished in the fresh air, despite the January chill carried along with it, the cool wind hitting across her cheeks and turning them a distinctive hue of pink.

But it was hardly the garden which took her breath away. It wasn't Mipsey's expansive knowledge about flowers that Hermione was positive most people, not to mention house-elves, didn't possess. It was the flash of a face she caught sight of, her eyes locking to a figure across the array of bushes and shrubbery which stood between them.

A glance landed in her direction; the face of Draco Malfoy looking towards her and nodding, the faintest smile formed across his lips.

Hermione wondered if he regularly spent time in the gardens, happening upon her by coincidence, or if he noted her presence first and then made it a point to go outside. To what? Snoop? Say hello? He was doing neither.

Whatever the reason, she didn't much care. She returned the forced smile and continued like no one was watching. Like this was all completely ordinary.

She was getting quite good at doing so.

* * *

  
***Day Six***

No owl.

No words spoken to her, by letter or by Malfoy. The latter should have made her far happier than it did, and as for the former, her strongly worded message to the Magical Law Enforcement Agency was already reeling viciously within her head. Not to mention what else occupied inside there…

A day should have erased the inappropriate thoughts, but instead, all it did was ferment them – let them sit around and grow stronger. She needed answers; she needed clarification. And she needed them now. Godric help her, she couldn't even go mental anymore. She already was. And this would perhaps become the most telling example of why.

She knocked on the door of Malfoy's study, squaring her shoulders and nearly tasting the contents of her stomach lurching into her throat. Nothing. So, she tried again. Further silence ensued.

_Walk away now; who cares?_

Clearly not him.

She reached out to try the door, finding it unlocked. Nothing but emptiness and an unlit cauldron rested inside the room, so she left, quickly retreating into her own across the hall. Why was she even looking for him in the first place? Why bother?

Because she couldn't lay that incident to rest; an incident which played out in her mind with one hundred different endings, some crazier than others.

This called for drastic measures.

_Malfoy,_

_Meet in the library sometime after dinner tonight. I'd like to speak with you._

_Liked to_? Hermione scowled down at the note, changing it twice more before settling on a final product. She'd just keep the first sentence – curiously vague but efficient regardless.

Her destination was reached in no time and said drastic measure slipped underneath the door crack with the flick of her wand. The choice was in his hands now; all which was left to do was wait.

* * *

 

"I didn't think you'd show up."

He'd barely even walked through the library's entryway as Granger's voice exuded through its otherwise empty interior. She sat at a desk off to one side, an open book and some parchments sprawled out in front of her. He halted only a few steps away from the door, and she swivelled around in her chair to face him.

_Me neither._

Draco regretted this impulsive choice already. Another added to the list of terribly made decisions – the one made two nights ago just barely above this one.

"Are you studying for an exam or something?" Draco sarcastically asked.

"Doing research on a couple of spells actually," she said plainly before shutting her parchments inside the book.

He thought of nothing else to reply with other than the one question he'd had for the past few hours:

"Was it really necessary to slip that note underneath my bedroom door? We're in the same bloody house, Granger…"

She looked up. "I figured you were out somewhere – considering I haven't seen you all day… I tried checking your study first, but you weren't there."

Was she keeping track or something?

"I was busy," he lied.

"Right," she nodded in agreement, a smile forming.

Why was she bloody smirking like that?

"I figured a note would be easiest," Granger teased. "Figured you didn't have an answering machine that I could leave a message on."

Oh, that's why. Some idiotic Muggle thing. She thought she was cute – mentioning things he didn't know of.

Well, she wasn't.

Not with the ridiculously messy ponytail that sat on top of her head with strands of brown hair toppling out. Not with the way she worried her lower lip for absolutely no reason whatsoever. And certainly, not the body-hugging clothing which seemed to occupy the entirety of her wardrobe; for Salazar's sake, were Muggle denims getting tighter or was he going mad?

She took his silence as a reason to continue.

"Look…" Granger paused, clearly feeling uncomfortable with remaining seated. She stood, crossing around the desk and leaning back up against one corner.

He was right: Muggle denims were _definitely_ getting tighter.

"… About what happened the other night –"

"Nothing _happened_."

The way he said it certainly didn't help his point one bit.

"I – I know nothing happened," she glanced down towards her shoes, trying to undo and retie her laces through some nonverbal spell. Or at least, that's how it looked. "I just meant… well, I figured you deserved an explanation."

_An explanation of what?_

Why he didn't push her away like he should have? Why, knowing her, she was going to spin this a million different ways to become something it clearly wasn't? Clearly never would be. Why he'd followed her request to meet in the library in the first place?

Those were the questions he needed real clarification over. He mentioned none of them, placing the attention instead solely on her.

"You're not the first person in the world to have a nightmare, Granger…"

For Salazar's sake, he of all people should know.

"I know that," she answered. "But you didn't have to come in and wake me up from it… But you did. And that was… Nice – of you."

Of fucking course, she was going to try and make this some heartfelt spectacle. He didn't do nice. He didn't talk about feelings like some band of Hufflepuff girls. He didn't do _this_.

So, then what was he doing there?

Draco snorted at her claim, but she didn't seem to pay any heed to his disregard. She took a deep lungful and went on.

"So… _thanks_. For, well – for being there I guess."

"Don't mention it."

No, seriously – _don't_ , Draco silently pleaded, though he doubted she'd listen.

"Was that all?" he asked.

She tucked a segment of loose hair back and looked up; somehow knowing his eyes would snap towards her immediately following the next statement.

"Were you expecting more?"

Her comment made him falter, though more because of the way her eyebrows lifted as she said it. Before he could stop his own words, they were out – spoken with a snide amount of confidence and wiping the smirk straight off her face.

"Were you offering?"

"Was I – _what_?"

She looked like she was about say something else then decided against it… She kept doing this. Staring. Or was it glaring? The line was so thin he hardly noticed when he himself had crossed it.

"I didn't think so," he finally spoke up. "Goodnight, Granger."

He spun to leave, but she stopped him suddenly.

"Why didn't you come back?"

He glanced behind his shoulder, looking at the determined face of Hermione Granger as if she had just grown a pair of bollocks to have been able to pose the question. Her ludicrous question.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'come back'?" he spat, exasperated. "To do – _what_ exactly? Snuggle in bed with you until dawn broke –"

"I didn't mean to my room, Malfoy…" she interrupted, softening her expression and taking a step forward. He involuntary took one back.

He took a moment to realise what she was even asking.

"Oh," he muttered to the floor. "That."

"Yeah," she affirmed hesitantly. " _That_ …"

"Not everyone went back, Granger."

Not everyone came out as a decorated war hero either, but surely, _she_ wouldn't understand that part.

"True," she agreed. "But I guess it wasn't surprising when people like Goyle or Millicent Bullstrode didn't… Suppose I never much pictured them actually graduating anyway – if we're being honest."

"But?"

"But _you_ – I don't know. I just thought you'd come back to take your NEWTs… "

"Why? So I could get some job at the sodding Ministry?"

"No," she shook her head. "Not necessarily. But you already made it that far; why not finish?"

"I couldn't. The trials didn't even wrap up until the end of September..."

He regretted the counterargument as soon as he made it, but Granger didn't seem to coil back or cringe like he internally did.

Instead, she only shrugged and stated simply, "You could have started the term late. I'm sure McGonagall would have allowed it… given the circumstances."

The circumstances. So that's what they were now. Simply unfortunate _circumstances_.

He shook off her ridiculous suggestion. "Right, brilliant idea that would have been."

"I'm serious."

"So am I," he said flatly hoping it would deter further discussion of the topic. Apparently, it only fuelled her fires.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean – _no_. I didn't go back, and I wasn't planning to. Fuck… give it up. Why do you even care?" He paused, the floor once more captivating his attention and muttering softly, "Like anyone would've wanted me there anyway."

Draco could have smacked himself right there for saying it, but she didn't seem to mind the weakness. A smile crossed her lips, apparently revelling in his misery and adoring each mention of his unfortunate history.

"Oh please," she said playfully, that stupid mischievous grin looking wider than he'd ever seen it. "Like anyone wanted you there the first seven years either, Malfoy – sure never stopped you before, did it?"

He should have been annoyed; should have come back with some clever response to her maddening wisecrack. Instead, his face just matched hers, biting back a smile.

"I suppose it didn't," he drawled, narrowing his eyes as she stood across from him. "But clearly _someone_ missed me being there."

"Merlin, _never_. You're insufferable," she groaned though her smile didn't waver. "Don't go getting a big head … Maybe I just missed having someone cry every time I'd get better marks than them –"

"I never _cried._ "

And he was the insufferable one?

"Sure…" she mocked. "Now there's one thing I'm definitely going to need more convincing of."

* * *

  
***Day Seven***

This was becoming ridiculous.

She had waited. She had been patient, plenty patient. Compliant. Everything they had asked of her, yet she'd been given nothing in return. And they were going to get a bloody piece of her mind because of it – Hermione swore she would get information, one way or another.

One week. Seven days. She had made it this far.

And for all she knew – oh wait. No, she didn't know.

Because she knew nothing.

Hermione scowled, reconfirming to herself that this was, in fact, a completely sane and rational decision. More so than yesterday's decision at least.

She'd been so thoughtless over the last few days. What was she thinking? Passing a note to Malfoy like she was too nervous and scared to approach him in-person after he'd seen her cry. She could only imagine how that looked. How that made _her_ look.

_It was efficient, was it not?_

Perhaps she should just be thankful they achieved an amicable exchange out of the whole thing. Not worry about why he always managed to say one thing and then do the exact opposite. Not question why he met up with her in the first place; why he didn't pull away when she'd woken up in bed scared and breathless; why his eyes raked over her body as she stood up from her seat in the library last night.

No – that didn't happen. She'd just imagined it. This place was doing things to her, and of course it was. Her sole human interaction was with Malfoy of all people, and she was thinking completely illogically. It was only natural. Besides, she had far more important things to do than focus on something so trivial.

This was probably a rubbish way to prove it, though…

Hermione took a deep breath, her knuckles meeting with the large door's wood-finish before her disagreements could argue differently. She felt proud of herself for remembering where his room was from just the one incident of her following him there. The entryway itself was unmistakable; it helped that two distinctive torches hung on either side to serve as a reference.

Nothing. She knocked again with increased force, this time far more successful.

"I need to borrow an owl," she blurted out as soon as the door had opened.

Not the exact greeting originally aimed for, but it certainly got the point across.

"Mhmm," came a sleepy grumble from the figure now standing head on with her. "Okay? Good fucking morning to you also."

"Er – good morning," she muttered, looking past his shoulder and into the room. "Were you still sleeping?"

As if pyjama bottoms and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved t-shirt weren't enough of an answer… And _his hair_ – Merlin, it took all the strength within her not to giggle over the strands which stuck out wildly in a way she'd never seen before. It was almost fitting, though. Natural. No products, potions, or charms to keep it perfectly flattened as she assumed was its only possible style.

" _Still_?" he repeated. "It's not even past nine in the bloody morning."

"Sorry," she said, holding up the envelope in her other hand. "I just needed to send a letter; it's going to the Ministry… But it can wait, of course. I don't mind. Go back to sleep…I'll just be in my room whenever you wake up –"

"I'm already awake, aren't I?"

"Oh – well, I suppose, yes. Now you are."

"You can borrow my owl, Granger," he smirked. "Just stop rambling already."

She shot a half-hearted glare, watching him step away from the doorframe and head back into his room.

Was that an indication for her to follow? She took it as one, pushing open his door and fully walking inside the chamber.

The bedroom was everything she expected and surprising all the same; spacious and stunning beyond belief – the size of a large flat and even more lavishly furnished than the one she was staying in. It hardly looked like an area occupied by any twenty-year-old boy, save for a few solitary framed Quidditch displays which lined the light-hued walls. And it was _bright_. Cheery in a way which you'd expect an aristocratic married couple's master suite to look like; not someone who had barely just exited teenagehood.

"I can't believe you live here…" Hermione muttered, not sure if she even meant the room or the home itself, her eyes shamelessly scanning every square inch surrounding her. She willed herself to walk in further, but her legs wouldn't move.

_Get it together. It's not like you've never been inside a boy's bedroom before… you're here to send an owl, for Merlin's sake._

She brought her eyes forward.

Malfoy had walked over to the farthest corner; a cage which looked big enough to accommodate a baby pterodactyl housed a large eagle owl, looking up attentively while its master unhinged the metal cage.

He looked back towards her standing hesitantly near the doorway. "What's so unbelievable?" he narrowed his gaze. "Were you expecting green walls and snake insignias everywhere?"

"No! Of course, not – I just meant… well. I meant it as a compliment, Malfoy. Your home is," she paused, hardly believing the words came from her own mouth, "lovely… truly, it is. What year was it built again?"

He blinked back, apparently hardly believing her words either.

"1074."

"Fascinating," she breathed looking around as if to emphasise her point. "You can really see it, even now – the gothic style of architecture which dominated back then. It's quite unique."

Instead of the snarky reply she anticipated which contained some form of the word 'swot', he simply corrected, "It's considered Romanesque, actually."

"Oh?"

"The gothic style didn't flourish until the 12th century in France," he sneered. "And not until much later decades within England and Wales."

"Yes," she quickly amended, rambling once more. "I knew that. I just meant – well, with the vaulted roofs, large windows, pointed arches; it looks far more Gothic in essence to me. Which makes sense, of course. Gothic sprung from Romanesque, both heavily influenced by the Norman –"

"Were you here to send an owl or would you like to see the home's architectural sketches instead?"

"You have them?" she asked with sudden intrigue before processing the sarcasm.

"Of course, I don't…" Malfoy rolled his eyes. "They'd be in the library, if anything." He held out his hand and waggled it at her. "Now fork it over, Granger – and sometime this year, preferably."

She looked down towards the sealed letter within her grasp, not parting with it. "I can do it –"

"He bites," Malfoy interrupted motioning towards the owl whose large amber eyes remained locked on her. " _Hard_."

"Oh, I bet," she mused flippantly. "Wonder who he gets it from…"

As soon as the words had left her lips, Hermione all but cringed as her face grew hot.

_Bloody hell – WHAT?_

Had she just implied that he bites, or was hard? Or both. Together… Oh, Godric, what in the hell had she just said? And why in that tone? Maybe it hadn't sounded as strange aloud as it did inside her head. Oh my God.

_STOP LOOKING DOWN!_

Her eyes snapped up as the voice yelled, the glance not even lasting a full millisecond.

It was not permissible for him to wear grey-silk pyjama bottoms anymore. Ever. Black was fine; black was perfectly modest. Her wandering glimpse right then was far from it.

_Are you twelve? This is_ Malfoy _for heaven's sake – pull yourself together._

He wasn't even paying attention, preoccupied with the owl who had just pushed its head affectionately against his hand. She let out a sigh of relief and silently cursed her obvious overreaction.

"Your concern is admirable," she spoke up, walking forward to redeem herself. "But I think I can manage just fine –"

He snatched the letter from her hand as soon as she was within reach. "Trust me... I insist."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. He opened the nearest window, allowing the owl to take its perch next to him before handing over a pellet of some dried up looking meat.

"Are you even allowed to be sending out mail?" he asked absently, still facing away from her.

"Of course, I'm _allowed_." She put a bit too much prominence on the word. "It's addressed to the Ministry. I'm just replying to the one they sent me… Updates and such."

Not a lie, but she neglected to mention the part in which their letter explicitly stated not to reply. What was she supposed to do? Sit around and knit all day without thinking about the case? She needed details, dammit. If they'd only just let her help – perhaps she could convince them her talents were better spent elsewhere.

"Have they found anything?" he asked, the genuineness of the question leaving her surprised.

"No," Hermione sighed, her frustration highly notable. "I don't think so… Not yet at least."

"Remind me to give this bloke a high five when they do," Malfoy teased as he cocked his head around to look at her. "Stumping both Hermione Granger and the entire Ministry – quite an impressive feat, you must admit."

She bit her lip and resisted the urge to smile. "I'm going to pretend like that was a compliment, Malfoy."

"Think what you want, Granger…"

"I will."

* * *

 

Only a few hours had passed since their morning exchange, and Hermione hadn't even bothered to knock on his study before entering. To her defence, she truly had somewhat forgotten in the midst of animated enthusiasm.

"Have you seen this?"

She held up a scroll as Malfoy's eyes followed it, pausing from chopping up the Valerian sprigs which were laid out on his potions bench.

"Could you bloody knock –"

" _Have you_?" she demanded.

Malfoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What is it?"

She walked over to where he was sitting, unrolling the parchment until the words 'East Wing' were displayed in massive cursive handwriting, facing it towards him on the benchtop.

"Look – you were right. They were in the library." She watched as his eyes scanned over the drawings now laid out between them. "It's the Manor's blueprints – the original ones, and very rough, from the looks of it. See the date next to the initials? 1073."

"Okay, _and_? Why would I ever look at something like that?" he asked smugly, and Hermione could only stifle a laugh. "What? Are you going to use this as a map or something?"

She ignored his snide remark. "Whoever drew this labelled every room – look."

"So?"

"So," Hermione beamed with satisfaction, listing while pointing to each individual square on the drawing. "Take a look… Over here we have the library, on this floor of course. Bedroom, oratory, servant's quarters, parlour, your study – oh… wait a second."

Malfoy's eyes followed her finger, and his face instantly dropped into a scowl large enough to warrant thorough satisfaction from the entire escapade. Because of course, that was the end goal through all of this. Harmless taunting, and with Malfoy, it was simply too easy.

When he didn't reply and only glared up, she read off the words slowly:

"Concubine's chamber… Hmm – I did always think this room was a bit… _stuffy_."

With a combination of that and his disgruntled facial expression, she let out a giggle, unable to hold it in any longer.

"Real mature, Granger," he snapped, though if she didn't know any better, it looked like he was trying to suppress a laugh, too. "You probably wrote that in yourself –"

"Why would I do that?"

"You tell me… What did it take you – four hours to find this?"

"Hardly," she scoffed, somehow only feeding off his quip. "How have you never seen them before? There's four more in the library just like it. Probably just freehand sketches – who knows. I doubt they were used for much, but the history in them is fascinating, really. Don't you think?"

"No," he grumbled.

"Liar," she argued. "I mean clearly there's been a few renovations made over the past millennia – thank heavens. And personally, I'm kind of glad that's one Malfoy tradition that died out."

And with that, even his smirk couldn't be controlled.

"I think there's been a bit more than _a few_ ," he said.

"Changes made to the home or traditions that have perished?"

"You tell me," Malfoy drawled, gesturing his head towards the unrolled parchment. "You're the expert here, aren't you?"

"Well I'm certainly glad someone changed this space," she giggled at the insinuation. "And traded out a bedroom for a potions laboratory –"

"That someone being _me_ … although the room was completely barren beforehand, contrary to what you apparently believe."

Hermione scanned the room; looking around at the wall hangings and accented dark hues to contract his bedroom, bookshelves lining each wall, and cabinets filled with various brewing equipment.

"So why'd you pick this one then?" she asked.

"It was far away..."

The way he said it was unlike anything else, her eyes snapping down to meet his.

"From _what_?"

He didn't answer, and in truth, he didn't need to.

It wasn't a secret.

Her attention shifted from him onto the map still laying out on the tabletop; her mouth forming words before she could possibly hope to stop them.

"Which room did he stay in?"

She shouldn't have asked it; Hermione didn't know what had come over her, and apparently, that was becoming the new standard. As soon as the words escaped, she instantly regretted them, just like earlier. But this time, it had nothing to do with grey trousers or biting hard.

How she desperately wished it did.

"I… I'm sorry," she muttered while shaking her head. "You don't have to answer that. Merlin. I don't know why I just –"

"It's not on this," he said, motioning towards the parchment. "It's in the West Wing; my parent's old room. Down the hallway from mine."

A sharp breath met Hermione's lungs as she listened to his words; as she waited for a switch to flip and for anger to once more become his predominant emotion. But it never did, and she felt guilty for wishing it would – for seeing Draco Malfoy recoil and look away and go back to chopping the fine springs before adding them to the cauldron while she stood unable to form proper sentences.

"Any more questions?" he finally muttered.

"No," Hermione lied, despite having hundreds. None which needed addressing right then. At least not yet.

Malfoy glanced up. "So, your turn then," he breathed calmly.

"What?"

He leant forward on the bench, his arms crossed and eyebrow cocked. "What happened, Granger?"

"With what?"

"With whatever reason made you come here."

And for the same ungodly reason which demanded her to remain standing there – which demanded that she ask insane questions and press her forehead against Malfoys shoulder in the middle of the night…

She told him bloody everything.

* * *

 

"No – _ugh_! That's a vile way of thinking. You're completely missing the point! It's not about the _money_ –"

"Then why are you putting so much emphasis on wages?" Draco asked, stealing glances from behind the large cauldron which he'd just reduced from a boil to an easy simmer.

She had been there an hour, perhaps two. Surely not longer than three, but Draco hardly took note of the time; he didn't particularly wish to know how long he'd allowed Hermione Granger to take root and sit atop the divan-styled couch which lay against one wall.

There were at least ten, no _twenty_ , different moments he'd almost demanded that she leave. He was hardly getting any work done and the girl could bloody talk someone's ear off if given the proper opportunity. Apparently, he'd given her plenty. Somehow both ears were still connected to either side of his head, but Merlin himself didn't even know _how_.

Because she just kept talking. Once you'd learnt one fact, she'd gladly divulge twenty more. She kept trying to pry information from him, but to no avail. He couldn't fathom trusting anyone so quickly in the same way which she seemed to confide in him. He'd given her no reason, no justification. But there she was: spilling details out about the work she did at the Ministry. Proving information he didn't ask about – information that he didn't care about.

Yet somehow, he still listened.

"It's about what those wages symbolise – _freedom_. The basic human right of providing a service and, in return, being granted equal and fair compensation for that service. Without such… well, it's no different than slavery."

"Basic _human_ rights," Draco overemphasised the word. "Key detail. You can't honestly sit there and deny there are differences, Granger."

"Of course there are differences," she said as if he were daft. "Differences which should be celebrated and respected. Not chastised and the reason we force slavery onto other living beings… If we just _teach_ them –"

"And we could also teach Merpeople to climb trees, but at the end of the day they're still going to prefer the water."

He relished in watching her face coat with annoyance; perhaps because it never lasted for too long. Her expression softened, and she stood up. For a second he assumed she was going to begin pacing the floors like she had twice already, but she simply strolled over to the bookshelf which occupied the opposite wall.

"Have you read all these?"

"Not all of them. I took some out from the library just to fill the shelving… why?"

She didn't reply right away. Instead, her gaze locked on one spot in particular, running her hand along the spine of a book before removing it and staring down with wide eyes.

" _Hamlet_ ," she read the title aloud, pausing before posing her demanding question. "You – you have _Muggle_ literature?"

"No," he laughed at her ludicrous suggestion. "Of course not."

"Sure looks that way to me…" Granger muttered, flipping through random segments of the book until finally closing it.

"Who's Berwick Ashcraft?" she questioned after a few moments spent studying the cover.

And they called her the brightest witch of their age?

"The author of the play you're holding." He resisted the urge to say 'idiot' at the end of his sentence, though he wasn't sure she'd heard him regardless. "The _wizard_ , though I shouldn't even have to clarify –"

"No!" She firmly shook her head. "That's wrong… That's bollocks! This play was written by Shakespeare –"

"That Muggle bloke who plagiarised off Ashcraft's work?" he snorted. "Seriously? You really do believe anything, don't you?"

He expected the comment to prick a nerve, but all she did was stare back at him; sadness crossing over her appearance and the book now clutched across her chest.

"Malfoy…" she exhaled, looking down.

"What?"

"Is that seriously what they told you?"

* * *

 

She had taken a total of four.

_Hamlet_ and _The Tempest_ out from Malfoy's study; _Much Ado About Nothing_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ out of the Library. There were more, but she figured those were plenty to keep her occupied for that night – skimming their lines and revelling in the madness.

Because that's precisely what it was: utter madness. Propaganda. A seventeenth-century wizard who made an absolute killing off plagiarising the works of a Muggle playwright and redirecting the blame to paint them all out as treacherous scum. Feeding off the overly accepted concept back then that no bloody way any non-magic folk could create such masterpieces – could create magic of their own.

Half of her wanted to scream, and the other half wanted to simply laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

As she skimmed the pages, she noted the obvious changes. There were spells added to prove authenticity, household charms and reoccurring mentions of potion usage. _Romeo and Juliet_ was perhaps the most butchered; Juliet an heiress to a wealthy wizarding estate and Romeo, her shifty Muggle suitor, leading her down a road of heartache and despair, and of course, the same tragic fate which befell them both.

So much of the dialogue was copied, so many famous lines still left in…

Malfoy didn't believe a word of it, and she tried not to be upset because of it. She should have already known; she reminded herself who he was. _What_ he was. A spoiled upbringing mixed with years of prejudice ingrained since probably before he could speak. Hate and bigotry taught equally as language and arithmetic. It was astonishing that his family agreed to this, but more so, that he even spoke to her without a permanent grimace tattooed on his face. Without calling her a Mudblood and with clearly more interest in Muggle things than he ever wanted to admit.

There was more depth to him than she'd originally assumed – so much more than even he could see.

She wasn't daft enough to think he'd ever truly enjoy her company, or she enjoy they'd never be best friends, but that didn't mean they couldn't at least be _friendly_ and simply pretend otherwise. They were adults, not children. They were adapting to one another's presence, becoming immune to the chaotic history which would always surround them.

_Then what was this morning? What was today?_

Adaptation. On both of their parts.

Their most recent time spent together proved unexpectedly engaging; their conversations the most mentally stimulating thing her time there likely had to offer. She might as well take advantage of it.

Hermione levitated the books off her bed and across the room, reaching for the remaining bit of Sleeping Draught she had left over, and giving herself a mental reminder to ask Mipsey for more tomorrow.

She would need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta love goes out to Phinoa for reassuring me that this chapter wasn't complete crap xD As usual, you give me the confidence to actually post whatever it is that I write lol
> 
> I'm trying to get into this whole Tumblr thing, so if you have one, follow me, and I'll follow you back! Same username: MalfoysMuggleMrs –on which you can see the two beautiful covers DarkStars23 has made for Obsessed! A huge THANK YOU shout out goes out to her for being incredibly sweet and always so supportive.
> 
> Okay, LAST THING. I swear…
> 
> This story will eventually contain smut. (*cue cheers from the audience and a few doubtful scoffs*) That said, I will not announce when exactly said smut will be taking place, nor will I put a cautionary warning at the beginning of any chapter regarding graphic lemons. If that's not your thing, be forewarned. If that is, disregard this completely and forge onward.
> 
> LOVE YOU ALL!
> 
> ~MMM


	13. Broken Seals

xXx  
 ***Day Eight***

"You knocked."

Hermione feigned surprise, a hand still on the metal knob as her attention focused on the tall figure standing outside her doorway. She had barely begun eating breakfast when a repetitive pounding pulled away her attention.

"You figured out how to shut your door," came Malfoy's condescending reply. "Bravo."

Hermione rolled her eyes, dropping an arm away from the door before crossing both over her chest.

"This just came for you," he provided his reason for being there, taking a step closer.

Her focus unglued, moving towards the blank envelope Malfoy now held up. Knowing exactly what it was, she snatched away the piece of mail impulsively, unable to hide the nervous anticipation bubbling up. This was it! What she had been waiting for. Finally! Some answers.

"You opened it already!" she seethed, soon pulling out a letter from beneath the broken seal.

"It didn't have your bloody name on it."

"Of course, it didn't! They're not just going to – never mind. Forget it."

She was far more interested in reading the message's content than teaching Malfoy basic standards of human decency. She scanned the paper once. Twice. Nearly chucking it down to the floor by the third time around.

_Good Morning,_

_We received your letter yesterday. As implied previously, information will be provided on a need to know basis and per our highly specialised set of owls within the DoMLE offices._

_To reiterate, just in case our prior letter held unclarity: outbound communications will be strictly prohibited. If you are unable to abide by such guidelines, we will be forced to mandate the temporary removal of any and all communication platforms from inside the premise. The eagle owl formerly used will be held in custody within the Ministry's owlery until further notice as a pre-emptive security measure._

_We appreciate your cooperation in this matter._

It took her a long moment to notice just how crinkled the parchment's edges were becoming with each sentence read. This was impossible. Inconceivable. She once more resisted the urge to chuck the letter down and stomp on it like a toddler.

"Granger, you're turning blue."

Her attention snapped up from the neat handwriting and onto the figure who had migrated fully inside her room. He seemed to be quite pleased with that fact. She took a deep breath, clinging to every shred of composure she could muster.

"This!" she shook the parchment violently, inducing further crinkling of one edge. "This… Oh! Bloody hell, this is complete and utter –"

"Fucking Troll shit," Malfoy supplied in a far less couth manner. "I've read detention slips from Filch which sounded more sensible."

"I, well – yes!" she exclaimed. "How dare they? They have some nerve! Thinking they can just –"

"Keep my owl hostage!" he ranted, pacing the carpet. "If they think they're getting away with this – they're wrong. They're  _done_. I'll fucking ruin them –"

"I'm sure they're quivering as we speak, Malfoy," mocked Hermione, his empty threats sounding more humorous than anything. "And  _that's_  your biggest concern right now? Your owl? Let's not even mention  _me_  being held hostage here –"

"Please. You're fine, Granger," he argued. "This has probably been the greatest week of your life."

"Right. I'm having a blast," Hermione agreed sarcastically. "Who cares if there's just some unidentified lunatic roaming the streets waiting to hurt, attack, or potentially murder some other innocent victim. Bloody 'fine', Malfoy. Who cares?"

"None of those things happened to you."

If looks could kill, hers surely would've.

"And?"

"And that's quite pathetic if you truly think about it," he leered with a maddening sense of sureness. "At least as far as any decent criminal mastermind is concerned."

Her face fell. Apparently, to him, that simply meant 'keep going'.

"Which leads me to question," he disregarded her troubled appearance and paused. "How can you be so sure that, whoever this is, isn't just pulling your leg through all of this?"

"That's mental," Hermione insisted, crossing the room and sitting down on the leather sofa.

"Is it?"

"Yes. You didn't read those letters... You don't understand. And might I add, ' _hurt'_  doesn't always means physically, Malfoy. Just because I wasn't assaulted doesn't mean this has been easy."

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes before they went back to stormy coldness. Or was it indifference? Or was it something else entirely?

Somehow, even he didn't have a remark to come back with after she'd sat down.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" she couldn't change the subject fast enough.

"Why?"

"Mipsey always brings me enough food to feed a small village," she explained, her eyes gesturing towards the serving platter she'd barely touched. "I hate wasting it."

Malfoy peered over, looking towards the dish of assorted breakfast foods and practically sticking his nose towards the heavens at the sight of it.

"The sausage looks burnt."

"It's fine – I'll eat it," she waved off his protest, picking up a sausage from the plate and taking a bite, relishing in the savoury flavour and soon realising just how famished she was.

It took a few seconds of mindless chewing before she finally glimpsed up, meeting with the unrecognisable expression looking towards her. No, not looking.  _Watching_. Judging her – every small movement she made. And maybe, just maybe, not negatively.

"Could you use a bloody fork?"

Okay, maybe it was in a negative way. How many of Ron's table manners had rubbed off on her in past years?

He didn't leave, his feet stayed glued to one spot, waiting for her reaction as if to gauge his next move. Because that was his strategy. Say one thing, cross his fingers for her volatile reaction, and then proceed to do the exact opposite of whatever he implied.

Insufferable prat.

_But Gods, were his eyes even real?_

No. Just like that faulty thought – not real.

"Just shut up and eat a piece of toast already, Malfoy. I see you eyeballing it." She simply picked up a piece of cutlery and waggled it. "Do you need a fork for that as well?"

* * *

xXx

Daphne nervously fidgeted with her fingernails before glancing up. "I'm sorry, alright?" she whispered, feeling silly for not knowing what else to say. "It's not as easy as you think."

The response she received was even more disheartening than her lame apology. "You're hopeless; you know that? Why don't you just break into his office at the Ministry? He's not going to keep anything important at home."

Daphne frowned, shifting in bed and running a hand through her blonde locks in frustration. "Do you think I can just barrel straight in and start rummaging through important documents?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Daphne frowned. "It worked that once, but you know it's risking  _a lot_ … You make this sound like walking into Honeydukes and stealing some sweets."

"Oh, fuck me," laughed the voice into her ear. "Do you remember when you did that? Back during third year? Damn… how was that so long ago?"

It might as well have been a lifetime ago, the way Daphne saw it. Her frown slowly dissolved into a smile. "I only did it because you egged me on – told me it would validate how I got sorted into Slytherin and not Hufflepuff. What bollocks… you were a terrible influence back then. I felt guilty for the rest of the trip."

"Oh, how pathetic. Over three stolen sugar-spin quills?" Another laugh. "Honestly, though – what's changed?"

_What has?_

Daphne rolled over, sitting up and reaching for her discarded blouse before pulling it over her head. "Nothing. Nothing's changed."

"Hey!" came a disgruntled objection. "Where are you going?"

"Home," said Daphne. "It's late."

Her explanation clearly didn't sit well. "I thought you were staying over –"

"Astoria's getting too suspicious," Daphne reasoned, adjusting the neck of her shirt. "I can't spend the night anymore. If she tells –"

"You think that bint would tell your parents? Your sister? Fucker of all things Mudblood. I know the girl is challenged, but she's not that daft."

"I can't risk it." Daphne stood, simultaneously pulling her knickers up from off the ground.

As soon as she'd turned around, an arm wrapped around her hips and pulled back. Daphne fell onto the bed as two legs proceeded to pin her down.

"Stay," the command came out harshly.

Daphne rolled her blue eyes, struggling against the stronger set of arms. "Let me go!"

"Why should I?"

"Because we can't keep doing this!" Daphne exclaimed.

She swore, sometimes she only said the words because it felt like the most sensible thing she'd done all week; what any sane minded person would. Even after speaking them aloud so many times, Daphne hardly believed they retained any real weight. Apparently, she wasn't the only one.

"Then stop me, Daph." The lips trailing down her neck paused momentarily. "Stop  _this_. If you wanna leave – leave."

She didn't. That mixture of horrid guilt intertwined with a blazing fire lit inside her chest kept her stationary, hair splayed out across the expensive silk linens. Instead of a halting request, only the glaring truth fell from her loose lips.

"God, I love you so much," groaned Daphne as one hand groped her waist while another reached for lower.

"Then  _prove it_." Another demand, though this one less harsh. "Then  _stay_."

And so she did, unsure and uncaring at that moment to wonder if she ever wouldn't.

* * *

xXx  
 ***Day Nine***

"Are you stalking me or something?"

Draco wasn't sure if he laughed because of the ridiculous question or the manner it was said in. "Was that your terrible attempt at a joke, Granger? If so, you have one fucked-up sense of humour."

"That wasn't an answer."

He snorted, strolling up closer to her. "You don't have a monopoly on this library, believe it or not."

Clearly, she thought so.

Granger sat at the table she seemingly claimed as her own, too many books to even count surrounding her. How long had she been in there? All day? Not that he was keeping track of her movements; he couldn't care less.

But still, one could be curious.

"Besides, it's my house," insisted Draco. "I can go wherever I want."

"I see… No plans for tonight beyond aimlessly pacing your study?" she asked as if loving the idea.

"It's a Wednesday night."

"So?"

"So, what were you expecting? A charity ball?" smirked Draco. "Sorry. The nondisclosure was quite specific. No company allowed until you vacate the premise –"

"Which I  _can't_  do yet, remember?" she sat up taller in her chair and leant forward. "As much as I'd love to, believe me."

"Pray tell. Is there a trivia night you're just itching to attend or something?"

"No… but you know – Witches Wine Wednesday at the Leaky Cauldron is quite the event to behold. There's karaoke and everything. Might be good for  _you_  to go and let loose, Malfoy. You seem rather tense."

Tense? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

She sounded like his bloody mother, although even  _she_  wouldn't suggest something so vile. He'd rather spend the night caring for Flobberworms.

"Do I look like a  _witch_  who partakes in cheap wine and drunken singing?" Draco drawled, gesturing to himself.

Granger put her hand over her mouth to cover a snort. "Well… your hair is getting rather long."

He shot her a vehement scowl, watching her cheeks turn a fiery red.

"I'm only joking!" She held up her hands in defence. "Plenty of blokes go, too – it's fun."

"And how would you know?" he asked with a mischievous glint.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that I've been…  _once_."

"Once, huh?"

"Fine, twice," she admitted with no persuasion needed. "But the second time I'd rather just erase from my memory completely, truth be told."

"Throw up all over your cheap trainers, did you?"

He expected her to bite back with an angered comeback, but nothing of the sorts followed.

She stared as if physically watching the images flash through her mind. "Ginny made us all go one night when Ron and Harry were back home from Auror training. And, oh Merlin, they both got so drunk off these bottles of Pinot –"

"Stop right there." Draco gestured in protest. "This already sounds miserable."

She apparently found that comical enough to crack the slightest smile, though it fell immediately. She didn't listen to his request to stop, pressing forward with the unfortunate story.

"Harry and Ginny drunkenly did karaoke together," she continued. "It was rather sweet actually. Terrible, of course. But sweet. Although, the crowd might never be able to listen to 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love' the same way again."

"So, Potter's singing voice was dreadful enough warranted the entire night ruined, I take it," Draco surmised with a smirk. "Pity. I might have actually paid to witness that train wreck."

"Yeah…" she trailed off, her posture hunched worse than usual. She looked like she wanted to say more but instead just nervously tugged at a strand of brown hair.

_Don't say it._

"You know, Granger…"

_Don't you dare say it!_

The voice inside his mind was loud, but the absent-minded tapping of her fingers against the wooden table was louder. The words escaped before his inner voice could reign strong:

"You don't need to go to the fucking Leaky Cauldron to drink wine and be miserable."

* * *

xXx

_So, you spend your time hanging around Mudbloods continuously now?_

One.

_Two regular old mates, huh? Filthy aberration – the both of you._

Two.

_For Salazar's sake, did she use a fucking shrinking charm on those hideous Muggle denims or were they always that tight?_

Three.

By the fourth refill of 1973 Chateau d'Yquem, his inner voice became entirely sedated. By the fifth, Draco hardly even cared that he was spending the night inside his family's library with Granger (by his choice and not that of a house-elf) with stolen bottles of expensive wine from his parent's downstairs Cellar.

Granger still nursed her current glass, swirling around the liquid and taking small sips. She had drifted from one of the tables over to the library's comfortable inglenook, sitting opposite Draco and staring blankly into the crackling fireplace.

He pretended to read a book, although she'd apparently abandoned all hopes to even fake concentration on the one she'd pulled down from a nearby shelf.

"Can I ask you something, Malfoy?"

Like he had any fucking choice.

"No," he answered, despite hardly having any energy left to fight against it. "But you're going to regardless."

The corners of her lips tugged up into the faintest smile as she ran a hand along the sofa's cushions.

Draco felt his chest tighten, unsure of what he wanted her to say and what he didn't. By that point, he was unsure if there was any difference between the two.

_Please just let it be about the Manor's stupid architectural design,_ he silently pleaded as more wine graced the back of his throat.

"Is it true that arranged marriages are still common within pure-blood circles?" she asked as if addressing a teacher in class. "I know it's not publicly spoken about much, but well… it's not exactly a secret either, is it?"

How entirely random. Impulsive. Just like his willingness to answer it.

He supposed there were worse questions she could've asked. Mainly those which encompassed his fluttering gaze down to the abnormal material fitted enticingly around her legs.

"Sort of," he muttered, disgust swelling up from either the question or his answer. Possibly both. "Betrothal agreements between affluent families exist, yes. It's more common in some countries than others."

She hung on to every word, looking entirely too intrigued. He couldn't help but let a snide comment slip come through, part blame placed on the alcohol, part blame placed on wanting to watch the witch's eyes glaze with annoyance.

"Don't worry – paupers like Weasley always marry for sodding love. He could probably bring home a Muggle streetwalker and be welcomed in with open arms. You needn't be concerned, Granger."

She let out a 'tuh', and he couldn't help but notice her expression change.

He jabbed further. "Did that happen or something?"

"Oh my god – of course not!" She looked as if she may chuck the abandoned book laying next to her at his head. "That not at all what I'm worried about."

"Then why'd you ask?" Beyond the fact that she was too damn nosy for her own good.

"I'm curious."

"About?"

"I suppose it's just," she reflected, looking lost in thought. "Do you think it makes it easier?"

Draco blinked, staring back dumbly.

"I mean, it must take loads of pressure off," she began, looking at him as if trying to extract his deepest secrets. "Just having someone pre-selected for you."

"Does it now?"

"Looking from your limited perspective – maybe. The divorce rates are astronomically lower with arranged nuptials. Though, that aspect might be cultural. But think about it –"

"And am I hearing this correctly?" Draco cut in, taking a swig of his drink before grinning broadly. "Fighter of all rights – for witches, Muggle-borns, and house-elves – wants an  _arranged_ marriage?"

"What? No! I didn't say that," she quickly amended, looking horrified. "Not at all. I – I don't know."

She didn't just  _not_  know something like that; she always made it bloody clear to everyone at any possible second her stringent viewpoint on things. That's why Draco sat silent, waiting for the elaboration he knew would come.

"Maybe I'm just wondering," she breathed softly. "I mean, logically, how it makes sense to select a life partner based on nothing more than one emotion alone."

Were they seriously having this conversation? The wench could spill out her heart to a sodding brick wall as if it were her best friend of ten years.

Apparently, he was that brick wall.

"Granger, what the hell is this about?"

Not that he cared. Brick wall –  _be a brick wall._

"I just read something earlier, and it got me thinking…" Her eyes averted away, making him question the authenticity of her statement. "I thought maybe you'd have a strong opinion on the topic – seems you have one on everything else." A pause and a sip from her wine glass broke away Draco's focus. "Anyway. Just forget –"

"My parents had an arranged marriage," he interjected before she had a chance to change the subject. "It worked perfectly fine for them. I'm sure for some people it's easier. For others, it's not."

"And you?"

She seemed to be inclined to push every issue farther than needed; he seemed to be developing a predisposition to feed into it each time.

"They're giving me more leeway," said Draco, cursing himself for sounding so pathetic as he answered. "For now, at least… So long as she's pure-blood and comes from a wealthy and respectable family."

"Well that's almost the worst of both worlds?" she said it like some kind of question. "Still having the pressure to choose but having strict constraints."

"No," Draco disagreed, forcing his voice not to waver. "Because I wouldn't be with anyone who's not those things."

"You just looked somewhat pained while saying it, that's all."

"Because I couldn't care less about that shit!" he snapped, a brutal amount of harshness and honesty coming through. "I've got better things to worry about."

She gawked back, letting silence fill the library for what felt like a full twenty-four hours before replying.

"Thank Merlin one of us said it."

"What?" asked Draco.

"I mean, finally! Someone with a normal twenty-year-old-bloke reaction to the subject." Her smirk was one which nearly rivalled his. "It's refreshing."

"As opposed to?"

She shrugged casually.

"Look around, Malfoy. Everyone's either getting engaged or already is. There are people we went to school with who have children. Maybe it was because of the war, or it's just the wizarding world in general..."

" _And you_?" he questioned in the same meddlesome way she had prior.

"I don't know if I ever want to," she whispered as if telling him plans for a hidden stake-out. "Get married, have kids. Maybe later… Maybe never. Shit, is that a horrid thing to say?"

_No._

"Yes."

"It's just all so permanent." The glossy coat covering her earth-toned orbs practically shimmered as she spoke. "So forever."

Draco blinked back, wondering how it was even possible for a female to think something like that, let alone say it. Certainly, none of the ones he knew ever would. That was the finish line for practically every pure-blood witch he'd ever met – the end goal, the purpose for life itself.

"That's sort of the point, I think."

"I know." She nodded hesitantly, looking into her wine glass like she was reading her future. "It's just… sometimes I feel like there's so much more out there than just  _that_."

"Because there is…"

Her gaze snapped up to meet his before Draco submitted to his own alcohol-induced rambling.

"All those people are fucking stupid; without enough brain cells to rub together to do anything remotely interesting or important with their lives. Or  _worse_  – they think it'll fill some void the war left behind. Idiots, fucking idiots. The whole lot of them."

She snickered, nearly spilling wine across the front of her cotton t-shirt. "They're not idiots! Well, maybe some… No, blimey. I didn't mean that! I mean, everyone wants different things –"

"Is that why you and Weasley split?"

It was a wild guess, but the way her glassy gaze instantly lost focus confirmed that it was a correct one.

The  _Daily Prophet_  article published on the matter left more questions than answers; the vacant stare she now wore filled in some of the gaps. Not that he'd read that rubbish in the first place, even if it was the talk throughout Wizarding England for an entire week post-publication.

She didn't look surprised or angered over the question. Only slightly sad, like someone had insulted her new haircut or favourite book.

"Does that nondisclosure agreement encompass everything I tell you while staying here also?"

"Suppose it would have to, wouldn't it?"

Instead of fumbled lying, she simply relayed information that Draco was positive  _Daily Prophet_  editors would chop their right legs off for.

"He proposed," she exhaled, seemingly trying to ignite the library's wall into a mass of flames with her eyes alone. "When we were nineteen. He proposed, and I panicked."

_Look at the fucking can of worms you've opened this time._

Why the hell was he doing this? This had gone way too far. He needed to stop. Needed to walk away. Walk out.

"At that wine Wednesday, what-ever-the-fuck?" Draco guessed, remembering her unfortunate mention of it earlier in the night.

_Failure._

Her eyes shot up, clearly astonished by his second correct deduction.

"Later in the night. But, yes."

"Hm," Draco snorted. "How wonderfully poetic."

"It was – in its own way." She nervously gnawed at her bottom lip, looking towards her hands. "I broke up with him that night for no better reason than his offering up the world to me. Because _I_  wanted more… and he didn't. What type of selfish person does that?"

"Right –  _no_  better reasons," he mused sarcastically. "That face you just made should be reason enough."

The voices inside his mind were arguing. Debating frantically if he should walk straight out or spend the entire rest of the night talking to the stubborn ex-Gryffindor invading all his thoughts.

"It's funny…"

"With your fucked-up sense of humour, I'd suppose so," he quipped, though it went ignored by the brunette.

"I once thought it was all I ever wanted," she admitted, finally polishing off the glass she'd been babysitting. "Until it actually happened."

"Yeah." Draco nodded in agreement. "Funny how that works."

* * *

xXx

Silence. But a comforting type. The type you didn't have to fill with forced conversation or awkward glances upward.

The book Draco had randomly selected (and physically forced himself to read the first chapter of) was atrocious. Some historical fiction revolving around the Wizarding Spice Trade of 1672 with little action and no dialogue. He hardly understood why his family even owned such a mundane piece of literature, nonetheless hadn't thrown it into a blazing firepit yet.

He was bored, still rather drunk, and practically falling asleep on the sofa he'd claimed as his own to sprawl across. Glancing off to one side, Draco all but laughed aloud at the sight he now noticed.

Granger was passed out in a rather awkward position. Her formerly upright body was now lazily slouched over one arm of the opposite sofa; the book within her lap looking ready to fall over and onto the floor at any given moment.

Draco took out his wand, waving it to vanish their empty wine glasses and place both novels on the shelves which they came from.

"Granger, wake up," he commanded loudly. "Come on!"

She didn't even flinch.

"Granger… it's late," he stated the obvious. "Time for bed."

Nothing.

"Fine. Enjoy your stiff neck and pounding headache."

He rolled his eyes, heading towards the library's exit with every intention of leaving her there. Sober Draco certainly wouldn't have stopped to turn around. He wouldn't have reluctantly gone back to wake her up, because honestly, who really bloody cared if she slept in there all night? It was her fault for drunkenly passing out like some lightweight fourth year.

Most of all, the sober version of himself unquestionably  _wouldn't_  have decided that she looked far too peaceful to disturb during her impromptu slumber.

_A Levitating Charm would wake her anyway. Sod it._

The entire time he questioned his sanity. Harshly, and with every ounce of self-loathing he imagined was possible. Probably most of all when he initially snaked one arm around her already bent knees while the other supported the weight of her torso.

Lifting her from the couch was almost effortless. She was light. Too skinny. Too intoxicating – her scent wafting through his nostrils as he clung to her petite frame and walked beyond the library's exit.

He prayed to Salazar, Merlin, and every deity he didn't believe in that she wouldn't wake up. Thankfully, she never did. Not when her loose neck unknowingly caused her head to slump against his chest. Not when he kicked open her already ajar door and walked inside the peaceful darkness of her bedroom. And not even when he lowered her down onto her bed – pulling up the covers at the very last second because, bloody hell, why was her room so fucking cold?

A minute later, after swarms of contradictory and questionable thoughts ran through his mind, he finally left. He walked down the hallway far quicker than necessary, knowing she would wake up in bed the next morning with no memory as to how she got there.

_Thank fucking god._

* * *

xXx  
 ***Day Ten***

Hermione couldn't escape his presence. He hadn't spent his evening across the hallway, nor inside the Manor's library with her like the night prior. But even from inside her room, she was still overwhelmed by his existence.

She'd woken that morning with a splitting headache and the confusing query as to how she had no memory of going to bed. She hadn't been that pissed, had she? Apparently whatever overpriced wine Malfoy insisted they drink last night was stronger than she'd thought.

She'd done a humiliating check to make sure her clothes were still on. Why in Merlin's name wouldn't they be? And who the hell was she checking for over her shoulder on the other side of her mattress? No one. Well, of course there was no one.

_It was only a dream, relax._ Her mind's reassurance hardly provided any comfort.

She was never drinking wine again.

The sun was slowly dropping below the horizon, and she couldn't help but wonder why anyone would enjoy riding on a broomstick in such a sub-zero climate with nightfall briskly approaching. It was like the ceremonial Quidditch match held at the Weasleys' every Christmas Eve; utterly mental, if you asked her.

Apparently, no one cared to.

But this Quidditch match wasn't played against a horde of brothers, nor above a field with pigs and chickens as it's characteristic occupants. Instead, it was played with only one, above a perfectly groomed professional-sized set of stands which Hermione briefly wondered if anyone actually sat in.

She could see him all the way from her balcony; the curtains were drawn back, and beams from the sundown glistened inside her room like pooling waterfalls of oranges and yellows.

As an alternative to looking towards the setting ball of light gracing the English countryside, her senses demanded focus on what it illuminated: the pitch and its solitary inhabitant.

She had spent most of the day away from Malfoy, though she was unsure if that meant much of anything if the majority of it was instead spent filled with thoughts of him.

_What was last night?_

_Why did last night have to be anything?_

_Why does he have to be so bloody handsome?_

Merlin. So, what?

She could admit that; even if only within the depths of her mind, where such an unfortunate opinion originated anyway. She wasn't blind. He had grown into that pointy little face, almost annoyingly well. But that's all this was.

This.

This was what people confused and twisted into meaning things which it clearly didn't. Pheromones and a few neurotransmitters, invading her brain and making her look towards the blond man wearing Quidditch trousers and a jersey which finally wasn't a putrid shade of Slytherin green. Not that he ever looked atrocious in that either, looking back. She'd just never paid him much mind from her place amongst the sea of people occupying Gryffindor's stands. For obvious reasons. Oh Merlin, all those obvious reasons that she now seemed to completely overlook with one squint towards the distant pitch.

Sweet Circe, what was she doing? Her thoughts were running amuck, pesky and unwanted. She watched him circle the pitch once more, forcing her eyes away and her legs to walk towards the bed, flinging herself onto the mattress and letting out an exasperated groan.

This place was going to be the death of her.

* * *

xXx

Every single muscle in his body ached.

He'd been at it for at least three hours; the only light now originated from the charmed Snitch glowing against the night sky as he chased it around the pitch for what had to be the fifth time in a row.

Each time he'd catch it, he'd release it, only to repeat the process all over again. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a broom for such an extended period. It felt phenomenal, just simply flying, save for the early onset of darkness and the frigid cold which late January brought with it.

The tiny gold ball had a mind of its own, flying dangerously close to one side of his home, to the point of where he had to pull his broomstick up to keep from colliding with the Manor's siding. Despite being more dangerous, it certainly added to the thrill which came from nighttime riding. Hence why he didn't bother to light up the pitch itself, like his mother had always insisted he do as a boy. Flying into the frigid blackness had a certain level of mystic wonder achieved from nothing else.

"Got you," he muttered to himself, white clouds of breath escaping as his fingers wrapped around the fidgety Snitch minutes later.

It was getting late, and his body needed a break from flying. Maybe some mulled wine to warm up his frozen insides. He veered his broomstick around one of the Manor's towers, his vision fully adjusted to the dimly lit surroundings illuminated by nothing more than moonlight.

Until another light caught his attention…

Typically, the vision would have only made his eyes avert for the shortest of moments, a millisecond at most. A room with the lights left on – the curtains left pulled back so you could see the backdrop inside. Typical. Nothing which should have made his gaze linger.

Except for the person who was also visible from inside the room:

Hermione Granger – crossing over the bedroom's floor – with long stringy locks of sopping wet hair being dried with a thick towel she held in one hand. Another towel wrapped around her body, water droplets glistening from each inch of her wet skin as she moved closer into view.

Draco nearly fell from his broom leaning so far forward, hardly realising that he'd instinctively flown up beside to the balcony's railing.

He crouched below the barrier as his eyes peeked over. Not that he needed to, she couldn't see him regardless; darkness engulfed everything on the other side of her exposed window.

He watched as she walked over to where the sofa was, crouching down and rifling through something. It must have been her trunk, he realised. He recognised clothing being dangled in one hand as she continued her crouching and rifling – towel riding dangerously high up towards the bottom of her backside as she did.

He should fly away. No, not  _should_. Would.

He wasn't just going stay hovering beneath the rail of her terrace like some obsessed madman. Considering the circumstances of her being there – he assumed such actions would be highly looked down upon. Then again, another part of him yelled 'sod it'. It was her fault if she decided to waltz stark naked in front of an open, fully lit window.

Perhaps  _that_  was how she got into this whole predicament in the first place. He'd solved the mystery.

Draco willed himself to move, but he remained stationary in flight. Instead of parting with such an improper moment as logic demanded, he found himself only cursing his family name for keeping such massive towels within their guestroom suites. If only she crouched a little lower; if only she stood up and dropped it completely…

_If only she weren't a Mudblood, you fucking blood traitor!_

His conscious still wouldn't calm, but once more, he didn't submit to it. He allowed himself a few shameless moments to gaze, knowing he would hate himself for this come morning.

She finally stood with a bundle of clothing flung over one arm, her opposite hand preoccupied with clutching the front of her towel to reassure its preserved stability. Draco found himself hoping for the opposite effect, each passing second he spent watching her fumble around in the room making it more painful to sit atop his broom.

_Damn her to hell._

He cursed quietly, shifting his weight to one side while trying to ignore the strain placed on his trousers, the discomfort brought along with it making it harder and harder to ignore.

Much harder.

_What the –_

As if his unseemly thoughts were loud enough to hear, her senses shifted towards the window to stare outside for a fleeting moment before glancing away. She tightened her grip on the towel and did a complete turn with her head, reaching for something which sat atop the coffee table.

Suddenly, with the flick of her newly retrieved wand, the blinds fell together, blocking out any view Draco had entirely. He frowned, disgusted with himself for the disappointment washing over him.

Because he'd wanted to see; he'd wanted to look.

_Look at what you can never touch._


	14. Out

 xXx **  
*Day Eleven***

Draco heaved a sigh as he sat his fork beside the untouched plate of food.

This conversation wasn't going well. It wasn't going anywhere, really. Unsure of why he'd mentioned anything in the first place, during dinner at that, he stiffly glanced up. His mother's sullen face and eyeballed curiosity were impossible to ignore, but he held the same steadfast countenance as she proceeded to pry mercilessly.

" _Where_  exactly?" she asked.

"Out."

"How colourfully descriptive, darling. Outside? Out- _where_?"

Two blue eyes narrowing from across the long table and a conclusion that she wouldn't drop the subject were enough to prompt Draco's grudging answer.

"It's Theo's birthday tomorrow. He invited Blaise and me out for drinks, and I said I'd go." After a long pause, he realised she expected more. "That's it…"

"I see." A blonde eyebrow arched in his direction before she shifted in her seat, shrugging casually. "Very well then. That's all you needed to say, dear."

She seemed content; perhaps just happy that 'out' didn't mean some secret congregation of pure-blooded rebellion or simply because he was utilising the word in the first place.

"Theo's working at the Ministry still, yes?" she asked, wielding a different approach for her interrogation.

"Yes," said Draco.

"Seems the boy is doing quite well for himself. All things considering _._ "

Having a dead mother and a father locked away in Azkaban was what Draco could only assume all the things she was considering encompassed. He nodded back in silent agreement. She was right; Theo was doing brilliantly by present standards. An envy Draco wouldn't admit aloud, now or ever.

He stabbed an asparagus spear on his plate at the thought.

"I suppose so," said Draco, changing the subject quickly. "By the way, I used Alva to send back a reply to Theo. He's got a nasty habit of handing out owl treats until they all but blow up from overfeeding – might not see her until Monday, honestly."

"Alva?" she repeated, sounding more suspicious than genuinely concerned. "What's wrong with Bubo?"

"Lost somewhere, I think."

"Lost?"

"Yes."

He wasn't about to explain why in Salazar's name he'd lent his owl to Granger, only to have it seised like a child's play thing by the inept Ministry. Draco merely shrugged as if it were the most typical thing to happen in the world and shot his parents a brief look of annoyance to prove authenticity.

"That thing is beyond worthless, you know…" Lucius finally spoke up after an unusually long bout of silence. "Like I've said before – I don't see why you haven't got rid of it yet. Monstrosity of an owl if I've ever seen one."

" _Lucius_."

A warning tone only his mother could properly execute fell across the dinner table.

"Yes, well…" Draco trailed off, questioning what condemned soul possessed him to say the next few words. "We tend to keep a lot of worthless things around here it seems, don't we, Father?"

" _Draco!_ "

Lucius let out an oblivious snort. "Too right. You know, speaking of the girl –"

"I wasn't."

* * *

xXx  
***Day Twelve***

It didn't take long for Draco to begin questioning his decisions the following night either.

"Alrigh' there 'andsome," slurred a hoarse female voice, cracking up and down with each syllable. "Fancy a pour with 'n old lassie like meself?"

Old  _crone_  was more like it.

"Think I'll pass," spat Draco with revulsion as he ripped his arm away from the witch's clutch, fighting an urge to  _Scourgify_  the area where her hand lingered. "If it's all the same to you –"

"Ay," she croaked suddenly, pointing a crooked finger as he tried to pass. "Wait a secon', boy. I know you."

"Congratulations," he managed in the rudest tone possible, "would you prefer an autograph then?"

He didn't stick around the dingy alleyway long enough to hear an answer.

Out of three,  _Brewed Awakening_  was typically named as Knockturn Alley's  _least_  dodgy pub. It wasn't saying much, especially considering its marketed clientele and unsavoury location. Furthermore, the surrounding rumours of an illicit dragon-egg trading operation ran under wraps (by the equally as undesirable owners) certainly didn't bode well for any stellar reputation.

Draco opened the door while holding his breath. The place reeked of spirits and stale tobacco, a plethora of thick smoke causing a permeant haze to dangle through mid-air as he stepped inside.

_No fucking way._

The patrons inside the building adjacent to Borgin and Burkes induced discomfort, and he wasn't looking towards the one-eyed Hag drinking at the bar, or the horde of wizards occupying one table, each looking so rough they may as well have been released from Azkaban that night. No. They were fine.

The others, however…

Draco's eyes lingered on an over-occupied table in one corner and attempted to hide the lines of contempt creeping across his features.

"Oi! Mate, over here!"

An arm flung around Draco's shoulder before any protest could be made, alcohol radiating off Theodore Nott's breath with each word spoken.

"You made it!"

"I said I would," replied Draco as he shrugged off the deadweight of an arm. He looked back towards the massive table where Theo previously stood from, grimacing.

As if reading his mind, Theo began calmly, "Alright, I know I said –"

"What the hell are  _they_  doing here?" he asked, looking over his friend's shoulder.

"Oh, them?"

When he shot a look of abhorrence, Theo shoved the drink he'd brought along into Draco's free hand like it was some unsolicited peace offering.

"Here. Take this," Theo ordered, "it's bloody foul. Tastes like a metal-polishing potion – you'll probably like it." He began again, "Look, before you freak out –"

"You said the only person you invited was Blaise," insinuated Draco, failing to hide his annoyance.

Theo let out an involuntary snicker. "Yes, well… I also said I wanted you to show up, didn't I? Besides, this is all Tracey's doing, really. Blame her. She invited the lot of 'em."

"That's your brilliant excuse?" he asked. "Blame Tracey?"

"Hey – technically I didn't lie. I  _did_  only invite you and Blaise. She roped up the rest."

"That makes it loads better then," said Draco through a thick layer of sarcasm.

Tracey Davis was Theo's seemingly eternal on-again-off-again girlfriend, dating back to their fourth year where they'd attended the Yule Ball together. About to dully question if they'd got back together for the hundredth (or was it thousandth by then?) time, his friend had already begun migrating over with a motion for Draco to follow.

He was going to kill him. Twenty-first birthday that night or not, Theo was as good as dead. He briefly contemplated gliding silently towards the door, grabbing a drink for the road and not spending a precious second wasted on this rubbish; but it was too late. Too many had already taken note of his presence.

" _DRACO_!"

A high-pitched squeal sounded and a set of arms wrapped around his torso. A rib crushing hug commenced as his nose was buried into the floral scent of black hair. He returned the embrace with a half-hearted sneer.

"Hi, Pansy."

"Hi," she gushed, freeing him from her grip after a few seconds. "You made it!"

"So I did."

Her beaming smile was brighter than anything else she wore. Dark lines and sharp cuts of expensive fabric draped over her body in a dress screaming 'pure-blood' and 'money' all within the same mundane sentence while her heels clicked against the floors each time she so much as pivoted positions.

"How've you been?" she asked immediately.

"Fine. And you?"

He silently prayed that she wouldn't mention the hordes of letters sent to him over the past couple of months… It wasn't that he was too busy, or even that he didn't care to reply; it was that he couldn't stand the strings attached to everything and anything involving her. The expectation. The history. The inability to ever be nothing more than two people within the same network of friends.

_Friends… right._

Pansy's reply almost went unheard.

"I've been fantastic!" Her eyes appeared big enough to burst when he turned back to face her. "You look lovely, by the way. Come! Sit!" She took his hand without further prompting and dragged him towards the others. "Everyone's here already – here, sit down."

 _Everyone_  was no small exaggeration.

There at the table Pansy pulled him to, sat 'the lot of 'em', Theo previously labelled.

Daphne Greengrass sat in between a bored looking Marcus Flint and an overeager Millicent Bulstrode. Blaise, who Draco expected to be there, sat beside a girl he had not – an unknown but pretty blonde who looked equally as dubious of her surroundings as she did dull. Greg and a familiar-looking witch paired up alongside Theo, who delivered a kiss to the side of Tracey Davis's cheek before sitting in an empty seat which her black handbag had apparently been holding.

Once more, Draco was given no option. The only remaining spot at the elongated table was at one end, next to where Pansy sat down and was motioning. His murder plans for Theo continued, swearing on his ancestral grave that he would never again allow himself to get seduced into coming out. He'd stay at home and get sloshed.

_What, in the library with Granger?_

Draco pushed the embarrassing incident out from his memory, reminding himself that if he withstood an entire evening with the Gryffindor who was equally as talkative as she was meddlesome, he could certainly withstand a few rounds with people he once spent every day around.

 _That was before;_ his mind screamed the glaring reminder as if he could ever forget.

Before everything. Before the trials; before the task.

If he'd have known this was going to be some sodding Slytherin-house reunion, he would have shown up pissed just to endure the night it was already shaping up to be. He gulped down the remainder of Theo's old drink and tried to push down the gripping sensation washing over his chest.

He should have brought a calming draught.

Draco muttered a half-hearted greeting to everyone around the table. He received one back, save for the lard of a girl sitting beside Greg who instead glanced around nervously as if expecting someone to withdraw their wand and curse her. He resisted the urge to purposely overemphasise a menacing greeting towards the fidgety girl, albeit drawing up a complete blank as to who she was. What was her name? Think.  _Think._  It started with an 'E'. Or was it an 'I'?

_Granger would know._

Of course, she fucking would.

"Long time no see," Daphne Greengrass snagged his attention, pulling focus from the hefty brunette sitting beside Greg.

"Suppose it has been," Draco agreed with forced interest.

He nodded towards his old Quidditch captain sitting with an arm draped around the petite blonde. He remembered the post owl which delivered their nuptial announcement, muttering a brief "congratulations, by the way," as a formality.

"Thank you," Daphne spoke up quickly, shooting a glance at her fiancé before looking back. "I hope your family will be in attendance."

He nodded. "Wouldn't miss it."

Despite never having a proclivity towards the Greengrass', his mother wouldn't bypass an opportunity to parade them around like well-trained show dogs – a feeble attempt to cling to what little status they still upheld. Draco did it for her; she basked in the reminisce of how things used to be, attempting to attend every wedding, charity ball, and Ministry function they could weasel an invitation to as proof of redemption and repentance.

Not that it produced much success, but her efforts never wavered.

"I still think you're mental, you know!" Millicent Bulstrode threw in her two Knuts on the topic. "Having your wedding one weekend after the European Cup – that's gonna be the most stressful month of your life, Marc."

Millicent was opinionated as ever. She seemed to be doing relatively well for herself, or so Draco heard. Although sporting the same broader frame than what typically belonged to a female, she'd slimmed out a bit since their days at Hogwarts and had taken up working as a career journalist for the  _Daily Prophet_.

"Right… like the Falcons will even make it into the finals," said Greg incredulously.

"Which they will," snapped Daphne. "Marcus was named best Chaser in the entire Western district last season – with the lineup they've got, plus a new Seeker coming on board this summer – they're nearly a shoe in for the title."

"Here we fucking go…" Draco overheard Pansy whisper beneath her breath.

The debate over trivial Quidditch tactics used by the Falcons vs the Arrows lasted longer than it should have, including Daphne making more valid arguments than Greg could likely count up to. Draco spoke little. Pansy swirled around the drink in her glass, looking pained by the topic, while Tracey Davis didn't hesitate to cut in with support thrown at her ex-roommate.

He supposed there could have been worse topics broached.

"Fine, Daph," said Greg in sore defeat. "What do you know anyway?"

"More than you." Daphne flipped a segment of dark blonde hair behind her back. "Or have you forgotten already?" She pointed towards herself, haughtily. "I could still kick any of your arses during a game of one on one. Even as the only girl from our year who made it on the Slytherin team –"

"Oh my God! You played as a  _substitute_ ," groaned Pansy, everyone's focus breaking towards her as she mirrored Daphne with a flip of dark hair. "You don't play now, and you  _barely_  played back then. Give it a rest already."

Daphne seemed unfazed by the snide remark as their table filled with ex-Slytherins, the unfamiliar blonde girl, and the nervous brunette beside Greg (Merlin, what was her name?) fell silent.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Says  _you_ , who never played in the first place. You can hardly even fly a broom."

"Oh, come on now," Tracey chimed in, cutting the air with her hand, "it's not Pansy's fault, really… She's just not used to riding on any boomstick that doesn't roll over and leave her the next morning. That's all."

The girl beside Blaise nearly snorted her drink through her nose, and Draco, along with the others, did a pathetically weak job at concealing a chortle of laughter which rippled throughout. Pansy's eyes shot daggers as her cheeks flamed a shade of red to match her lipstick.

"Hilarious." Her eye roll rivalled Blaise's and when Tracey sniggered in response, she spat heatedly, "Fuck off, Davis."

"No thanks." Tracey giggled from behind her wine glass, taking the longest drink possible as her eyes twinkled. "That's your speciality I thought."

"That comeback was almost adequate when you used it for the first time when we were fourteen," Pansy chided.

"Fuck off,  _Parkinson_ ," She made an effort to emphasise her mockery. "There. Was that one better?"

"Much…" Pansy faked the tightest smile. "Copying off me always was your speciality, wasn't it?"

Tracey stilled, murder flashing in her eyes.

"What?" goaded Pansy ominously. "Struck a nerve there, did I?"

"Not at all. Just trying to control my mouth," Tracey explained calmly. "Something you'd do quite well in learning to  _close_ , along with a few other choice body parts –"

"Theo, control your fucking girlfriend –"

"Will you both just shut the hell up already!" Daphne's palms nearly slammed the table as she stood up. "Merlin, not even drinking the entire bar would make putting up with you two bearable."

Finally, something Draco could agree with.

"Where are you going?" asked Millicent.

"Out," said Daphne.

* * *

xXx

Hermione glanced at the clock.

She needed to stop spending her nights like this.

Five hours. She'd been in the Manor's library over five hours to little avail. Nothing even remotely eye opening was written within the multitude of books she'd summoned from some of the highest shelves, nothing which gave her any substantial clues.

That was, all except one.

A book she'd almost overlooked, solely because of its placement shoved behind a German encyclopaedia set of Quidditch history throughout the middles ages. A tattered, leather-bound book that looked like it had been run through a Muggle washing machine and drove over by a line of oil-leaking lorries.

 _Curses and Cauldron Cheats_ was not a book she'd ever encountered within the Hogwarts library or on any of the murkier back-shelves at Flourish and Blotts. Filled to the brim with hazardous hexes, charms, and potions – a part of her was unsure if even  _owning_  the publication was legal.

Doubtful.

Still, though. It held a plethora of information on breaking through barriers and unhinging protective enchantments. Information as to  _how_  someone managed to infiltrate the wards she'd placed on her flat, leaving the  _why_  with the same massive question mark.

What would be the motive, if not to gain access to  _her_? If someone could navigate a sealed Floo-connection, enough to transport a letter, or a small box filled with chocolate frogs and cut out clippings of old  _Daily Prophet_  articles featuring her (hand checked by Aurors to verify no jinxes were placed on either item), then why wouldn't they just break-in outright? Snatch her up and take her away…

Perhaps for fear of getting caught and the punishments which could ensue? But no – using such illegal counter-charms and Unforgivable Curses posed an equal threat. Maybe they truly were just interested in some disturbing romantic relationship? That certainly was what each former love letter implied…

But then why hadn't this person been caught yet? The Ministry was offering her, or what anyone would've thought to be ' _her_ ', up like raw meat to a starved piranha; why wouldn't they take the bait?

Too many questions with so few answers.

Too many questions as she ran her hands through her pulled up hair, Malfoy's words being the only thing which played, over and over, again and again:

_"How can you be so sure that, whoever this is, isn't just pulling your leg through all of this?"_

Absurd.

He knew nothing of what she was going through; nothing about what type of pain something like this could prompt.

She held onto the book for hours, trying to memorise spells she didn't recognise and counter-charms she wished she knew existed. The information was priceless and considering her position; she couldn't be too prepared. Plus, it wasn't as if her schedule was too busy to allow for it.

Malfoy was avoiding her.

Perhaps 'avoiding' was an exaggeration. He simply didn't bother seeking her out. He made no point barging into her unlocked room or prancing throughout the library while she researched.

They'd seen each other in passing yesterday morning, when Hermione went to return a borrowed book and he was heading off to do Merlin knows what. She didn't bother to ask, a quick nod in either direction and that was all.

It felt like spending time with one another those three nights ago had wedged them farther apart, to the point of going back to nothing more than strained acquaintances. Maybe she'd talked too much. Said something she shouldn't have.

Bollocks.

No. She wouldn't do this again – replay the night on a continuous loop as if there was something that she'd missed and would catch onto during her pathetic mental rerun.

She had drunk a fair bit, which in hindsight may have been a mistake, one which Hermione infrequently ever made, but she hadn't drunk  _that_  much. She would've remembered saying something horrendously embarrassing or doing something completely offhanded.

Wouldn't she?

Hermione scolded herself. Wasn't this what she wanted in the first place? Quiet solitary? Peaceful seclusion, enough that she could close her eyes and pretend like she was elsewhere? That was the goal.

Or so she'd thought.

A sigh and her fingertips turning the tattered pages filled the uncomfortable silence.

When she glanced back at the clock, it was past midnight. Too late to use the excuse of further study as for why she wasn't in bed. With another heaved sigh, she decided it was time to attempt sleep, knowing she would wake up the next morning and do the same thing over again:

Lie restlessly in bed. Eat breakfast only by Mipsey's insistence. Knit parts of the blanket she'd been sporadically working on for three months. Head to the library. Read. Shower. Nightmares.

 _Repeat_.

The depressing thought went as quickly as it came, but the lingering uneasiness didn't follow. Rather down from her night, or maybe just exceptionally stir crazed and bored, it would forever become the excuse she'd use as to why she ended up outside his study, knocking furiously.

Nothing. So she tried again, relentless.

When no answer came, she turned, about to give up and go to bed when a hushed whisper stole her attention more than she should've allowed it. A snide comment; a petty remark – said only loud enough so that she could hear.

" _Muddy trollop_."

Hermione's head snapped around. A frown settled in reaction to the four pairs of eyes looking down at her. "What was that?" she asked, already irritated beyond logic.

The speaking portrait outside her room was atop her list (right below Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy themselves) of things within the Manor she happily avoided. Quite successfully.

Nosey and always speaking in subdued whispers, the four painted women wore overly bright and rather hideous witch's robes, reminiscent of seventeenth-century wealth – styles which undoubtedly went out of fashion for a reason. The picture showed a blonde witch, holding a golden goblet and seated atop a throne decorated with colourful jewels, while three other women gripped wands and stood off to her right.

"Have you no shame?" snapped a raven-haired woman, ugliest of the four.

"Shame?" Hermione repeated, the word escaping as a laugh.

"Yes. Or are you ever so proud of yourself?" another one quipped.

Her fists instinctively clenched before she calmly reasoned: _they aren't worth it._

_Walk away._

_Walk –_

"I beg your pardon?" demanded Hermione.

Her pride seemed to have a different idea of how to handle the jab.

She ignored reason, taking a step forward towards the condemnatory portrait. Her eyes wore challenge, her posture unyielding. "Please. Do elaborate."

The group of women stayed quiet as the blonde granted possession of her goblet to one of her female comrades before standing. Her robes dragged across the painted floor as she strolled up.

"We've seen the two of you together – the other night. Don't play coy." The main witch practically sang her disgust. "Passed out. So inebriated he had to carry you back into the bedroom… Salazar forgive, the least you could do is not wave your filthy fortification around like a flag of conquest."

If it were physically possible to choke on air, she'd be well past asphyxiated.

"A – my –  _what_?" Hermione's mind started racing so fast she couldn't form a proper sentence. "I… EXCUSE ME?"

_Passed out?_

Of course not.

That was impossible. No way. Unless…

_Stop. Don't even go there._

She seethed, resisting the urge to punch a hole straight through the lying, garrulous picture.

"Look at her," said another woman, her shrill voice sharper than a rusty nail. "A slag and a liar, too. Just as I said. And she's not even that pretty."

Hermione took another step forward, willing her arms to remain by her sides. "You know," she fumed, "while I do realise gossip is quite sparse while trapped within an unusually small frame, at the very least, you could make sure your false accusations –"

"Look. She's going to deny it," the raven-haired woman cut in. "You were right, Marinette."

"I'm not  _denying_  anything!" said Hermione. "I'm simply explaining how you're  _wrong_."

"She thinks she's quite clever," whispered the blonde, inducing three different sets of giggles.

"The chit always looks so… unhappy. Look. I can see her forehead crease already."

"At least the other girls he brought round didn't dress like complete dollymops."

_Other girls?_

The unwelcome thought nearly slipped out, but thankfully, brainless babble acted like a verbal blockade. The four women continued amongst themselves as if she were deaf:

"She'll be tossed aside before long – they always are. How long is she staying, you said?"

"Hopefully not much longer. Could you imagine if the lady of the Manor got wind? Oh, my sweet Merlin! The scandal."

"I hear they're not even assembling a betrothal," one of the witches lowered her voice and looked around nervously. "And for what reason? No one knows. A good lot that's done! Soon these sacred hallways will be infested with half-bloods and Muggle kinship alike!"

"Don't even joke, Victoria."

"Rather unfortunate, indeed," the blonde announced as if making a public declaration. "I told you there was always something  _off_  about that one. The boy's nothing like his father was at that age. Too sullen for his own good –"

"WOULD YOU PLEASE BE QUIET!" Hermione finally snapped, wand in hand and poised to cast the strongest Silencing Charm she could muster. "Nevermind, actually. I'll just do it myself."

With the spell nearly dripping off her tongue, a better idea suddenly materialised.

"You know," she continued, far beyond the ability to control her bitterness, "On second thought… I think it's time for a bit of redecorating out here. Don't you think?"

* * *

xXx

"A Dragon's Fizz and a Bloody Baron, hold the lime."

Draco snorted into his drink as the haggish female bartender began filling Blaise's order. The dark-skinned wizard turned to face him.

"Something funny?"

"Please say both of those frilly cocktails are for the blonde bint you brought along." Draco glanced back towards the table he'd recently abandoned, making eye contact with the witch sitting cross-armed beside Tracey.

"Maybe they're both for me," said Blaise dryly, perching himself on one of the barstools. "Is that a problem?"

"Better bring back  _something_ ," said Draco. "Your flavour of the week looks like she may hex you for leaving her alone with those nutters… Or maybe just for dragging her here in general. Can't say I blame her; Theo certainly could've picked a cheerier pub."

"Fiancé, actually," Blaise corrected, tossing down the handful of Sickles to pay for his drinks.

Firewhisky nearly spilt from Draco's mouth as he choked down the contents of his gulp before exhaling, " _What_?"

"Fiancé. Not flavour of the week. Theo hasn't told you?"

"Please say you're joking."

"Well if we're being technical, nothing's written in stone," Blaise began, "but I've already bought the ring, and her parents accepted my betrothal – seems rather pointless to go through much else."

"I see. How wonderfully sentimental," mocked Draco, watching the girl in question from his cemented spot at the bar. "Does that mean I get a proper introduction?"

Blaise seemed to find humour in his suggestion. "If you want one, but she already knows who you are."

"Of course she does. Who the hell is she?"

"Tova Trollqvist. Pure-blood. Her family owns a cauldron making company in Sweden." Blaise dramatically paused as if waiting for a better reaction than what he received.

"She sounds exhilarating," said Draco in a tone sounding anything but. "Tell me, does she speak?"

"Of course she speaks."

"English?"

Blaise's face sported annoyance, but he simply nodded. "Better than Goyle and his new, equally dimwitted, girlfriend combined – Tova's brilliant."

Draco made a dramatic choking sound, to which bit of divulged information, he wasn't sure. So intent on their casual banter, neither boy seemed to notice the figure which crept up behind them.

"Are we talking about Eloise Midgen?" a voice suddenly exclaimed.

Draco's head snapped around to see a rather intoxicated Theo Nott wearing a shit eating grin while addressing both him and Blaise.

"Greg's new sl – I mean, girlfriend."

"Fuck!" Draco exclaimed as if a light had turned on at Theo's words. " _That's_  her stupid name!" He'd hardly allowed his friend to finish ordering a drink before questioning, "Wasn't she in Gryffindor?"

"Yeah. Ten points for remembering, but twenty deducted for bringing it up," said Theo matter-of-factly. "You'd do well not to mention that fact – Millicent started bitching about it before you got here. When Eloise got up to use the loo. Think she's rather jealous, in truth."

"Of what?" asked Draco as he crinkled his nose.

"Beats me," shrugged Theo. "But mate, you should've heard Greg's reaction."

"What'd he say?"

Blaise deepened his voice, imitating their former housemate. " _At least she's pure-blood_ ,  _unlike_ others _around here_ ," he mimicked. "Please. As if even blood purity could cancel out the fact that Eloise looks like a dampened troll… But of course, you know how fucking sensitive Bulstrode gets when someone mentions her being half-blood."

"I wonder why," muttered Draco, recalling the mild torment the girl used to receive throughout her earlier school days. Mainly due to her appearance and overall personality, although the subject of her mother being a Muggle-born came up now and again within some circles.

Namely his.

"And so Tracey, of course,  _had_  to come to her defence," said Blaise, leaning against the bar top while looking sickened. "Some strange sistership they share through having fucking Muggle ancestry –"

"Piss off!" Theo looked like he may toss his tumbler to the ground at Blaise's backhanded comment. "No one gives a fuck that Tracey isn't pure-blood."

"Your father sure cared," muttered Blaise.

"Right.  _Well_. Good thing I'm about as fatherless are you are right now, aren't I?"

The truth stung like a poisonous insect, and the topic couldn't have been squashed faster.

* * *

xXx

" _You put us back this instant_!"

" _Stupid Muggle filth!_ " screamed a panicked voice. " _We've inhabited this Manor since Brutus Malfoy himself commissioned us! We demand you rehang us!_ "

" _Victoria – she's leaving._ "

" _No, wait! Mudblood, come back!_ "

Hermione spun around, whispering a Silencing Charm under her breath as she waved her wand. All four women's mouths continued to move, but no sound escaped. "Perfect," she decided before turning to leave.

She couldn't exit the space quickly enough.

She'd discovered the Manor's attic not by wandering aimlessly (although that was her initial intent), but rather by being smart about her impromptu redecoration plan of a home which she hardly had any business being inside of, let alone moving around its nattering portraits from their designated spaces.

_Someone had to._

Hermione grabbed the scroll from her back pocket and carefully unrolled the ancient piece of parchment, in such good condition, she wondered if it contained an anti-fading enchantment for preservation. It was the same one she'd shown Malfoy days ago, with large scrawl at the top in black text reading 'East Wing' – having retrieved it before taking her slight detour with the Levitated portrait in toe.

The rough architectural sketches were the best map of the home she could hope for; it showed a multitude of staircases and their ultimate end points, outlining different rooms and their theoretical purposes.

'Purposes' used in a very loose sense of the word.

The only other thing she wished it outlined was why in Godric's name the vaulted attic labelled 'loft' was empty. Not decluttered, not slightly sparse in some areas. Empty. No dust. No objects. Nothing but the silenced portrait leaning up against one wall and Hermione's thundering footsteps echoing inside the area's hollowness.

How abnormal.

What type of attic wasn't used for storage space, or at the very least, placement of a few random knick-knacks? This one was barren as if it had been swept clean, entirely vacated of whatever it previously held.

The thought made her more uneasy than it should've.

She descended the spiral staircase quicker than necessary, rationalising to herself that the house was  _massive_  – it probably wasn't feasible to own enough of anything to even fill the guest rooms, let alone a superfluous garret beneath the roof.

That was all.

Regardless, she reconsidered if it was a wise idea to leave the portrait just sitting there. She debated going back up and rehanging it elsewhere. In a different hallway, perhaps. She decided against it, arguing that she'd just ask Malfoy in the morning – swallowing down the sensation of anticipation she got over the prospect of consulting with him.

Not anticipation, indifference. Obviously indifference.

Hermione was just about to roll up the parchment, confident enough that she could retrace her steps without much confusion when a small inscription next to the handwritten word 'library' caught her eyes. She hadn't noticed it until then.

' _Ostium_ '.

Hermione studied it again, squinting to make sure she'd read the almost illegible Latin word correctly.

She had. Ostium.

 _Entrance_.

At first, she just assumed it was meant to label the entryway into the Library itself until she recognised that the word's positioning was opposite the actual doors, written beside a wall she knew held only books. Peculiar. It wasn't even on the same side where the fireplace was, which would make at least a little sense, considering it could be regarded as an entrance using Floo travel.

It took her a few more moments of intense scrutiny to recognise that there were two more places on the drawings where the word appeared. A top floor bedroom, and one of the main floor corridors.

Which left her with the enduring question:

_An entryway into what?_

Hermione tried to suppress her curiosity as she walked back into the library. With all intentions set on returning the scroll to its original resting place, she instead shot a glance towards the location of where this hypothetical passageway began.

Rubbish.

Complete and utter rubbish. Malfoy's study was also labelled as 'Concubine Chamber' on the less-than-accurate sketches; she couldn't seriously take anything they presented without a few grains of salt. It meant nothing. It  _was_  nothing.

_Just try it… What's the harm?_

Her curiosity won within seconds. Unable to drop the nagging suspicion, she lifted her wand and pointed it at the wall lined with nothing more than stockpiled bookshelves, speaking loud and clear.

" _Ostium_."

She shook her head after nothing happened. Barmy she was. Mental. What did she expect?

" _Patentibus_."

Apparently, telling a ceiling-high bookshelf to open did nothing more than make you feel like a nutter. She may as well have yelled 'open sesame' with four fingers crossed. The outlook would've been the same.

After trying a few more unsuccessful unlocking and disillusionment counter-charms, she lowered her wand in defeat. She'd just ask Malfoy tomorrow after catching up on some much-neglected sleep.

Then again…

Could she really trust him to divulge any undisclosed secret that his family home may possess? Unlikely. What if there was an underground passage which led somewhere deviant? A dungeon with medieval torture devices? A hidden cell with dozens of carcasses belonging to countless missing persons?

Hermione scoffed at herself, shaking her head to rid the lunacy. What type of obscene crime novels had she been reading?

She really was having an off night.

* * *

xXx

Draco was having a time. Maybe not a good time. Definitely not a grand time, but perhaps not a terrible one either.

Granted, he hadn't moved from the same rickety barstool, minus the first ten minutes following his arrival spent there. Theo seemed to have a similar desire for dissociation, not finding it necessary to entertain the assembly of old friends who'd come for what he'd described as 'Tracy's makeshift birthday celebration' for him.

"Exactly! Now you see why I avoid most of these people," said Draco, waving his hand loosely in the opposite direction. "She could've at least made an effort to invite some of your painfully dull co-workers."

"Ah, and if I actually talked to any of them, that would've been a splendid idea."

"Tosser," said Draco with a forced laugh, his eyes shifting to Millicent and Pansy who were both deep in conversation with Blaise. "But seriously, though… you could've given me a heads up."

"Give me some credit, Malfoy," said Theo after he nodded towards the barmaid for another round. "I know you better than that… Like I said – if I was getting roped into this, so were you."

"Bastard," laughed Draco, throwing down a small pile of Sickles once their drinks arrived. "You sure Tracey isn't brooding over there?"

"She's fine," he waved his hand in indifference, swigging down the drink. "As long as she's got  _someone's_  attention, she's content. Tracey could make friends with a chaise lounge and be happy, so long as it lets her spend thirty minutes talking about  _Witch Weekly_ 's latest gossip column."

Draco resisted the urge to mention how talking with Greg provided about as much intellectual stimulation. Or bring up the age-old question of how Theo ever managed to put up with Tracey Davis on a regular basis in the first place. You'd think by the eleventh split up; any romance would be long since dead and buried.

Draco scorned, "You know… I'd just hate to see a repeat of the Yule Ball all over again –"

"One year!" Theo put up his index finger for emphasis. "I want you or Blaise to go  _one year_  without bringing that up. That's all."

"Impossible," said Draco snidely. "I'm sure Blaise already prewrote your future wedding speech to include mention of Tracey's proficiency in Boil-bubbling Hexes. And the week-long hospital stays they induce."

Theo snorted. "Probably… right alongside his reminder that I'm insulting my family's prized antiquity by not marrying a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Draco's face fell slightly, looking down towards his drink. "Yes, well… I mean – he's not entirely wrong, is he?"

Theo disregarded the comment, already beginning a tireless rant which seemed aching for an excuse to be said.

"I mean, fuck! Mate, you should've heard him the other day – I wish you were there. Bloke thinks he's got it made with that dimwitted, pure-blooded trophy wife. Correction, future trophy wife. Future  _ex-wife_ , should I say. Shit, he's known this girl for all of what? Three months."

"Idiot," muttered Draco, nodding in agreement. "I give it a year, tops."

"I give it till next Wednesday," grumbled Theo angrily. "And then, he's still acting like we're in school, playing like Tracey's a fucking Muggle or something –"

"And what if she were?" questioned Draco tentatively.

"What? A Muggle?"

"Or a blood-traitor, or a Muggle-born, or a Squib," clarified Draco after Theo's eyebrows shot up. "I mean, you can't honestly sit there and pretend like you never  _cared_. Blaise is probably just trying to rub it in your face like he used to –"

"Hold on… What did you just say?"

"About Blaise?" asked Draco, glaring towards the haggard witch who had just sat down beside him with a crooked smile and a cigarette perched between two fingers.

"No, no. Before that," Theo clarified, a mischievous smile appearing to replace the scowl. When Draco said nothing, he let out a drunken chuckle.

"What's so bloody funny?"

"Nothing – nothing," laughed Theo, shaking his head suddenly. "Sorry. It's just… I forgot you even  _knew_  the polite term for 'Mudblood' – it just threw me there for a second, go on."

But Draco simply stared back, blinking one too many times to go unnoticed by one of his oldest friends. A few more seconds passed before the brown-haired boy finally spoke.

"You alright, mate?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Draco, forcing his shoulders to lower and demanding his muscles unclench.

"Oh, I don't know," mused Theo, "Do you need a list?"

* * *

xXx

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

The words dripped with meaning; a shameless message sent to all, glistening in shiny black text. The motto made a decorative addition to the silver and green tapestry Hermione willfully ignored, rather successfully so, up until then.

The flag-sized Malfoy crest hung openly above the library's crackling fireplace. Identical to the miniature hallmark stamped on one corner of the scroll's parchment, she looked back and forth between both sources.

_Purity Will Always Conquer._

A message read loud and clear, directed towards turbulent times and traitors alike.

She would never come to understand the urge that came over her, the gut feeling she almost brushed off. Until she reminded herself to trust her instincts, they'd saved her more times than she'd rather admit – they were worth more than she gave them credit.

Not as if it were life or death anymore. This was mere morbid curiosity.

Although, perhaps it was instead just a deep-set desire for adventure she craved like an addict. A desire which couldn't be vanquished by sitting inside a lavish bedroom for days on end.

She spoke the word with an unwavering purpose.

" _Sanctimonia."_

Hermione took a step back when the tip of her wand began to radiate an iridescent shade of silver. It lasted for a second, maybe less, although she wasn't entirely positive. She focused more on the bookshelf in front of her, moving aside of its own accord. It made way for a small hidden opening, starting first only large enough to fit a house-elf through, and soon doubling in size as the moments passed.

 _A closet?_ A hopeful shred of logic insisted, aghast.

 _But why a hidden one?_ Inquisitiveness argued.

Her conflicting thoughts paused while she stared in awe at the sight before her. A portal to another world. A mystery waiting to be solved.

Or so it might as well have been.

Hermione took a moment and contemplated her two choices: walk away now and simply ask Malfoy in the morning.

Or…

Venture further.

 _Do the sane thing_ , any remaining reason whispered. The normal thing. The  _right_  thing. Walk away.

But self-imposed bravery took the reins instead.

_One tiny peek can't hurt._

Hermione strolled up to the door, studying its frame as if expecting an instructional guide to be carved into the wooden pattern. When there obviously wasn't, she tried the antique circular handle, finding herself surprised that no further protective enchantment stood in place. With a single push, it opened completely.

Behind the small portal stood a descending stairwell into nothing – vacant and dark and downright creepy in comparison to the well-lit, cheery library which served as its starting point.

She stared down, looking behind her nervously only to swivel her head back towards the foreboding entryway. Taking a ragged breath, she did the only thing which seemed conceivably possible in that split-second moment.

She walked forward.


	15. Free Falling

Every time Hermione kindled the faintest flicker of hope about reaching the bottom step, eight more seemed to appear. Glancing back became futile – no longer could she see the trailing glow of light which pooled down from the library's luminescence. All which led her forward was her Lumos Charm and each sporadic jolt of bravery.

Not bravery, foolishness. Recklessness.

Hermione could practically hear Malfoy's condescending tone, echoing words like 'nosey swot' and 'meddlesome Mudblood' in her ears as she forged ahead. Although granted, she hadn't heard the latter in what felt like a lifetime ago. Merlin. Perhaps it almost was.

Hermione let the thought to dissipate, staggering onward. Around the staircase's winding bend, then down another flight, she strode. How long had it been? A full minute? Maybe the tiring of her legs was partly due to utilising muscles which had spent days on end being sedentary... Maybe she should turn around.

_Get a grip;_ she scolded herself over such a meek excuse to head back. It wasn't like the passageway led to Timbuktu. Meaning, the speeding of her heart and deepening of each rapid breath was due in part to something else.

She already knew the home contained at least  _one_  underground cellar, despite never seeing it in person.

A shiver ran down at the suggestion, but she pushed it down. It was over; it had been over for a long time. There was nothing here which could hurt her – nothing but a creepy piece of history, no worse than the hidden chambers or windowless vaults of Hogwarts and Gringotts.

Just as bravery was about to go head-on in a duel with sensibility, her foot touched level ground, signalling the end.

Hermione took in her new surroundings. No torture chamber or hoard of missing persons, though she knew such an allegation had been lunacy in the first place. She stood within the centre of what appeared to be a vast set of underground arches and tunnels, spanning far as her wand's light could reach. Rows of touches bedecked the stone walls, and with one step forward, a long line of flames sprang to life by the dungeon's enchantment. The sudden illumination made her jump.

She advanced tentatively, studying the stone walkway in passing.

It was like stepping back a thousand years, the channel seeming untouched since its original founding.  _Maybe so._  Multiple cobwebs and a thick layer of dust didn't argue against it. There were no wall hangings besides the torches, nothing even slightly reminiscent of prior occupancy.

She turned when the walkway veered. One more right turn and her footsteps came to a skidding halt. No movement, no sound. Hermione thought she heard a noise – faint, like the drip of water – but she disregarded it; there were more important things binding her focus. She stood at the start of a new hallway, scattered sets of metal bars lining either side.

Cells.

_Prison_  cells.

The row of compartments greeted her with an eerie emptiness.

There lay no bodies, alive or otherwise. No torture rack or iron maiden, not even the faintest hint of human suffering displayed within the vast number of subsurface vaults. They were bare; entirely vacated, just like the attic had been. Something pulled at her right then – a hint of empathy for the lives which may have ended down there. Hermione back-pedalled, deducing the sight was enough to satisfy her inquisitiveness for one day. For one lifetime was more like it...

Something pulled at her right then – a hint of empathy for the lives which may have ended down there. Hermione back-pedalled, deducing the sight was enough to satisfy her inquisitiveness for one day. For one lifetime was more like it...

For what felt like the first time all night, she finally listened to sense, heading back in the opposite direction.

* * *

xXx

The remainder of Draco's night flew by with an almost unprecedented sense of normality, despite its dreary setting and rough beginnings. The pub slowly cleared as minutes ticked on, the two friends left sitting up at the bar as patrons came and went.

"You should come out more often," remarked Theo after ordering his self-declared last round. "We all should... Like old times, remember?"

_Vividly._

Draco rolled his eyes at his friend's drunken proclamation. "Pass," he groaned his displeasure. "Remember the disaster that happened last time we all went out?" As if anyone could forget.

Apparently, an inebriated Theo could, squinting as if racking his brain for the answer. "That time Tracey puked on Daphne's shoes?" he guessed. "And then Pansy threw her drink into Tracey's hair as she was hunched over vomiting?"

Draco made a revolted face. "Tell me you just made that up."

"Shit. Nevermind." He shook his mop of brown hair. "You weren't there. Did I never tell you about that?"

"Thankfully, no," said Draco without even the slightest interest in such a narrative. Despite it, he questioned, "Why are they all still friends anyway? It's like they hate each other more than when we were in school."

" _Hate_  is a rather strong word," disagreed Theo with a shrug. "Besides, keep your enemies close, I guess? I don't attempt to understand the inner workings of the female mind."

"I guess," muttered Draco, his mind somehow shifting back to Granger and her own maddening motives. Not that he knew what any of them were; she made about as much sense as a troll speaking Mermish most days. Chaos and confusion, her presence around him could induce nothing less.

Theo snapped his fingers as if reaching an epiphany. "Oh! I know what you're thinking about now!"

Draco stilled. "You do?" he asked, forcing his tone to remain normal.

"Yeah, that time over the summer," said Theo as if just remembering the event took place. "When we all went drinking in Diagon Alley after that one Quidditch match. Someone snapped a photo of you and that random chit."

"Not just snapped a photo…" Draco trailed off, not bothering to reiterate how they also sold that picture to the  _Daily Prophet_  with the biggest piece of rubbish story to coincide with it.

That part didn't need vocalisation.

Theo gave his half-hearted sympathy. "Could've been worse." He looked at his hands, drunken ramblings spilling out. "Granted, it definitely  _was_ the worst article they've run on you yet –"

"Thanks for the reassurance," said Draco sarcastically. Defamation of character didn't even begin to scrape the surface, though he sometimes wondered why he'd been so surprised in the first place. "I'd almost forgotten."

"You brought it up," Theo pointed out. "In retrospect, I mean, they only  _implied_  that slag of a girl was under the Imperius Curse... They didn't outright say  _you_  were the one who Imperiused her –"

"They didn't exactly need to."

Nor had they apparently needed to get his side of the story about how the girl was entirely pissed from taking countless back to back shots of Firewhisky. How he'd been helping her back to her flat two blocks away. And definitely not how he had no intentions beyond making sure she didn't fall flat on her face while stumbling home.

No, that didn't sell papers.

They'd retracted the story eventually, running an apology in the tiniest of fonts on the smallest of margins, but it didn't matter. Judgement already passed wasn't so easily removed. He'd learned that the hard way.

"Oh, fucking hell. Who even reads that rubbish anyway?"

"Yeah," said Draco, not feeling as certain.

"However, I figured you  _would_  appreciate the location for tonight." Theo motioned to the dimly lit pub around them. "Fewer media informants, you see."

"How do you figure? Millicent still works for the Prophet, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, running obituary announcements," Theo gave a dismissive wave, "and then has the audacity to call it 'journalism'. … As if anything in those papers nowadays is even remotely close."

Draco nodded in silent agreement.

"Anyway," said Theo, swatting away the topic as if it were a bothersome fly. "What else have you been up to lately?"

Draco shrugged. "Little of this, little of that."

"So... nothing?" he guessed correctly. "Blimey. We need to get you out of the house more often, mate."

Draco didn't have a chance to argue the statement. A young barmaid walked up, shooting him a gap-toothed smile before turning towards Theo. "Next one's on the house, boys," she said with a wink, waving her wand to Summon a bottle from the highest shelf. "Anything else I can get for you two?"

"Well, would you fancy that! No. Thank you," Theo accepted graciously, indicating towards the scowling blond. "Have you met my friend over he –  _ouch_!"

Draco avoided looking up from his freshly poured drink as the girl giggled at Theo's outcry.

Theo glared, rubbing his shin as she walked off. "Seriously? That's going to leave a bruise," he complained once the girl was out of earshot. "Is that any way to treat someone trying to help you get laid? I'm appalled."

Draco resisted an urge to reach over and push him off the barstool. Drunkard probably wouldn't even flinch. "You're fucking stewed, Nott," he claimed wearingly. "I'm telling Tracey –"

"Go ahead,  _Malfoy_." Theo put up his hands in surrender. "Ten Galleons says she'd just force-feed me  _more_  liquor to guarantee that I'd slip into a coma right when we get home. Less work for her, see."

Draco snorted into his drink as he took a swig. "How precious," he said mockingly. "I swear, you two are the most cocked up couple I've ever met –"

"What was that?" Theo cupped his hand around his ear as if straining to listen. "Is that the sound of Draco Malfoy trying to give me relationship advice? My God, I do believe it is."

"No, you steaming prat," said Draco, fighting off a laugh. "Although, clearly – you  _do_  need some."

"Oh, do I?" asked Theo in mock disbelief. "Let's make a list of things  _you_ need. Shall we? Alright then, here we go. In alphabetical order, from the top –"

"What is it with you and making lists?"

"Number one. First and foremost," Theo ignored Draco's quip, "a shag."

"Skipped a few letters there, mate."

Theo shook his head. "No, that's all. That was the whole list."

"Remind me again why I talk to you?" asked the blond.

"Because you couldn't get rid of me. Even if you tried."

"I  _have_  tried," insisted Draco.

"And by the Gods, look where we are now," boasted Theo.

"I'd rather not."

* * *

xXx

Daphne's final drag of the cigarette she'd cadged from Millicent made the back of her throat burn. She cleared the smoke before announcing to the otherwise desolate alleyway, "You didn't have to come, you know…"

Two eyes burrowed into her as Marcus all but spit on the ground where she stood. "And what? Let my fiancée go to a seedy bar in Knockturn Alley  _alone_ like some five-Knut whore? Try as you might, we have to spend  _some_  time together –"

"I wouldn't have been alone! My friends are here." Daphne donned an eye roll before correcting, " _Our_  friends…"

"Right."

She hated this. Hated when he did this; said 'my fiancée' as if meant my property. Like there were any real differences. She took a deep breath, so the statement rung clear, "I'm going home. I'm way too tired to do this right now."

"Fine," agreed Marcus, happy enough with that resolution. "I'll guess I'll see you next Sunday for tea at your parents' house?" he asked before she could turn to leave. "Are you sober enough to Apparate?"

"I'm fine," lied Daphne, almost half-hoping she  _w_ _ould_ splinch herself into obliteration. She allowed Marcus to step forward for a kiss, willing herself not to pull back at the forced contact.

"See you."

She Apparated home without a reply, successfully landing within the centre of her bedroom.  _Pity_.

Daphne tried being as stealthy as possible while getting ready for bed, pulling out a Sober-Up Potion from underneath her bathroom cabinet and chugging down a long swig. She made a grimaced face before replacing the half drunk phial.

Marcus with her there or not, Merlin forbid if her parents found out where she'd been that night. And with who else…

After the effects of the potion kicked in, she decided on grabbing a quick bite from downstairs. With a flick of her wand, she lifted her door's locking charm and tiptoed across the upstairs corridor, heading towards the grand staircase on the opposite end.

A tiny sliver of light and two voices originating from her parents' room made Daphne come to an abrupt standstill. She almost backtracked, deciding the low grumble of her stomach wasn't worth the potential interrogation from getting caught out of bed at such an hour.

A shrill voice floated all the way down the hallway. Daphne stayed and listened, hovering outside their bedroom longer than necessary once she walked by.

"I just don't understand," her mother hissed loudly. "What's taking so long?"

"Will you keep your voice down!" Her father's deep tenor took over. "I told you... These things take time."

_What in the world?_  Daphne crept closer, straining her ears to overhear.

"You said this case was our ticket in, did you not?" asked her mother faintly.

Loud footsteps back and forth indicated nervous pacing. "It will be... I told you, they need  _us_  more than we need them right now, Demetra."

"Perfect," she said in a condescending tone. "So, either you get us this betrothal, or you'd better be playing poker next Sunday with Lucius Malfoy himself –"

"Will you relax already?" he cut her off harshly. "We have plenty of time. You're overreacting –"

"Am I, though?" a high-pitched question argued otherwise. "She's seeing that Mudblood again, Alabaster... I know it! I went over to that pathetic place she calls employment today – claims they haven't seen her in  _weeks._ Weeks! Did you know that?"

_Astoria…_

Daphne's stomach clenched as she removed her ear from against the door. She contemplated running straight into her sister's room, broadcasting every word she'd just overheard.

_They knew_.

Despite how much she disliked Astoria's choices, be it lifestyle or personal ones, she'd never once broached the subject of telling their parents. They always kept each other's secrets, even before. Back during simpler times, when 'secrets' encompassed nothing more than sneaking extra sweets and staying up beyond bedtime.

She decided to stay, placing her ear back on the door just in time to hear her father loudly exhale as he announced, "We'll handle it soon enough."

Handle it. Just as they'd  _handled_ her.

"How soon is soon enough?" Another sigh, this one feminine. "If you want even the slightest chance at winning against Kingsley during next year's election, you're going to need  _money_. For donations – philanthropy to worthy causes. Events. Speeches. Campaign funding –"

"You think I don't know that?" he asked angrily.

"All I'm saying is you're wasting your time with that Mudblood-girl's case."

Daphne's knees all but buckled beneath her. She used the closed door for support, praying her parents wouldn't notice the soft shuffle of noise as she tried to still he racing thoughts.

"That  _Mudblood-girl_ ," he emphasised, "has half the wizarding world underneath her fingernail thinking she's their lord and saviour –"

"Good for them," her mother interrupted. "Then solve her case, or don't. Either way, the good-word wishes of one muddy girl isn't going to change their history. Even if you do get Lucius's wand reinstated –"

"Do have even the slightest comprehension of how risky a move this may be?"

Daphne's heart pounded against her chest, remembering those same words used a mere three years prior. The images came flooding back, bleak and unwanted.  _You realise, if they find out we're sympathisers and the Dark Lord_ doesn't _win,_ her father had said one night in a choked whisper  _it's all over for us…_

_Over._ Somedays it seemed like the better alternative.

Her family should have won medals for how thin of a line they'd walked back then. For the sheer numbers they'd fooled into believing them as progressive and reformed; for the Ministry career her father held tighter than his own daughters.

Daphne was beyond nonplussed while listening in, dissecting every phrase and stressed syllable. The bickering continuously worsened as her father all but shouted.

"It'll help them to trust us –"

"Trust us?" the female voice repeated, laughing. "Is that seriously what you think? You realise, all people like the Malfoys care about is paving way for another heir. This is a  _good_  match, Alabaster… I don't understand why you're postponing the proposition of it. They'll get some power restored within the Ministry; we'll get a hefty monetary advantage –"

"I still have a job to do, Demetra."

"Then do it better."

* * *

xXx

Hermione blinked once. Twice. A third time. The image still didn't change. It had vanished – gone into thin air.

The staircase had changed back into nothing more than the same stone which ran throughout the entire wall of the dungeon.

There was nothing. No one.

_No, no, no!_

She slammed the wall with her palm in frustration, repeating spell after spell in hopes to make the walkway reappear. Unlike the bookshelf, the stones didn't move aside. No spoken words worked as an entrance key; no revealing charm was enough to make a staircase suddenly appear.

Hermione took a deep breath, forcing herself to think rationally. The map had shown multiple entrances to get down there. Logically, there had to be numerous exits, too. She'd got herself into this; she would get herself out.

_When are you ever going to learn?_ The voice was ruthless but judgemental as it should have been.  _You deserve this, what else did you expect?_

It would be fine; worst case scenario, she'd summon Mipsey. Considering it was bordering on one in the morning (and she'd rather not disclose she'd been down there in the first place), every other option needed to be exhausted first. As for now...

There had to be another way out.

Hermione wandered back down and around the winding pathways, glancing inside each cell for even the slightest clue.

One of the cells was unlike the others; in contrast to the metal bars of its neighbours, a solitary compartment stood with its opening moulded into the stones. Barely visible, save for a faint outline, the door had a conspicuous metal handle she silently prayed would allow her access.

_It must lead somewhere,_ Hermione reasoned, relieved when a simple unlocking charm was enough to grant her entry.

The room itself was pitch black and reeked of musk. A few objects reflected off the light from her wand; in one corner was an empty water jug, in another, something that looked slightly like a food bowl. Realisation dawned on Hermione upon seeing both items.

This chamber had housed prisoners. And  _recently_  from the looks of it.

She tried to ignore the pounding apprehension, ideas of what that could mean making her mouth go dry.  _Nothing_. It meant nothing.

Hermione kicked a stray nail she'd come dangerously close to stepping on, waving her wand in every direction so she could visualise her murky surroundings. That's when she saw it.

Another door – this one metal and more pronounced than the one leading in from the adjoining dungeons. She tried it immediately, surprised when not even a locking charm guarded against her passing through.

A steep stairwell stood on the opposite side and with every rising step, that same sensation of dread grew worse. When Hermione finally reached the top, a single trapped door stood between her and freedom. She hesitated before pulling down on the attached tether, tugging with all her might until the loose set of floorboards gave way.

The shining light from above wasn't much, but it was enough to steal her breath.

_No…_

Hermione froze in an instant.  _Go on!_ Sense demanded. _Don't even think about running back down there like some coward._

She listened, her legs moving while her brain stayed behind.

_It's just a room. It's only a room! That's all._

A room that preyed upon every terrible emotion it had ever withdrawn from her.

The place looked untouched. Thirty-foot-high ceilings; a pipe organ in one corner; an ornate table. She could've drawn it from memory and matched everything perfectly. The chandelier, reduced to a pile of shards the last time she'd seen it, had been repaired by magic and hung flawless as ever.

Every direction she glanced, her surroundings began spinning. The air felt icier than a snowstorm in January, but her skin was damp with sweat, the moisture drawing out every last trace of heat. She could see an exit, a massive staircase leading upstairs. A few more steps and she'd be out...

But her legs, formerly wrought with reckless bravery, suddenly wouldn't obey the simplest of commands. They buckled, she fell – toppling to her knees with every horrid sentiment from the past decade finding a home inside her veins once more.

She needed a minute; just a second was all. She'd be able to breathe once more. She'd be able to get back up.

She always did.

* * *

xXx

After bidding everyone hasty goodbyes, Draco eventually called his night to an end.

Due to the Manor's current wards, he Apparated outside its boundaries and finished the remaining distance on foot. The night was cool and crisp as he strolled up the home's long driveway, resenting the walk, not for its length, but for the thoughts it forced him to mull over.

Feelings about his life. Granger. What in the world was happening to him? She was nothing. An inconvenience, a nuisance. No one,  _nothing_ …

_Fuck._

Perhaps Theo was right, at least about one thing – he needed to get out more. Away from his thoughts, away from  _her_. Draco pushed down the disconcerting emotion, compartmentalising it as he always did, trying to disregard each glimmer of weakness.

He arrived finally, entering through the ground level's main doors before walking up a short flight of stairs. He'd nearly reached the top step before a soft noise interrupted his reverie.

_What in the –_

A brief glance inside the drawing room and he saw it immediately. A speck of pink contrasting with the room otherwise draped in darkness. The sight made his chest constrict once realisation hit.

"Granger?"

She was sitting dead centre in the room, both arms wrapped around her bent knees as her head hung between them. The sound of his voice made her neck snap straight, visible tear-stains streaking down each rosy cheek.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Draco imprudently. A thousand other questions threatened to spill out before and after.  _Probably better ones_ , he had to admit.

She mumbled something inaudible, wiping at her face.

"What did you say?" he asked before taking another step closer. "W-why are you down here?"

She liked those words even less, looking away as her cheeks grew pinker.

"Why are you on the floor?"

Nothing.

"Do you remember how to fucking speak?"

What in the hell else was someone supposed to say in a situation like this? Granted, a pre-scripted plan for what he should've done wouldn't have made a shred of difference, seeing as she'd become a deaf-mute by the eleventh second of him being there.

Draco let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before running a hand through his hair. A softer tone crept into his voice. "Are you alright?"

No question could've been less censored, less deliberate. But he didn't bother to care. All he could focus on was her face; the blank and emotionless expression it bore as she looked up in response to such an enquiry. Surprise. Or possibly embarrassment?

"Granger –"

"N-no," she protested weakly, shaking her head. "Don't."

In the blink of an eye, as if she'd just remembered where she was and what she'd said, her subdued sniffles converted into reckless sobs. Just like that other night. Just like before...

_Dammit, dammit, dammit!_

He wanted to run out. To run away, leave her there, ignore this entire incident until she'd inevitably bring it up later. She wouldn't be all that surprised; she'd call him a prick but expect nothing less. It would be easy. Simple.

Nothing felt farther from reality.

He walked over, taking hold of her arm and pulling gently. "Come on, get up. I'll help –"

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

Granger tore her arm away, almost making him stumble from such a violent reflex. She looked more horrified at her own outburst than he did, the uncomfortable silence acting as a catalyst to her tears. "Just… please leave," she breathed, matted hair stuck to one side of her damp cheek. "J-just go."

There was the permission Draco needed; laid out before him for the taking. He could do it: run upstairs, go to sleep, pretend she wasn't drowning in memories of her own misery. Pretend that she didn't exist...

_If only._

That strategy stopped working long ago.

"Fine," he grunted. "Have it your way."

Some unholy force led him away from the stairway to freedom, and towards the parallel wall from where she sat. He leaned his back against it and slid down, landing on the cold ground with both knees bending to match hers.

"W-what are you doing?" Granger asked, eyes widening.

"Not touching you," he growled from afar, the words sending a shiver down his spine. "That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

She gave him a weak nod; he gave her the same one back, pressing his spine firmly to the wall while watching her every movement. "Okay," said Draco with patience he hardly knew existed, "I won't..."

The promise was harder to keep than anticipated.

After he trailed off, she was a wreck. She leaned further into herself, pressing her forehead against both knees in an attempt to hide the blotchiness of her face. She wept as if he wasn't there. And he said nothing – no words of comfort, nor of disdain. What else was there left to say?

Everything.

He wanted it to end.  _Needed_  it to. He wanted her off that forsaken floor and back to normal. Her swotty, meddling, stubborn  _normal_. He smirked at the notion of it. Probably how she ended up down there in the first place.

An idea formulated in his mind to the melody of her broken sobs, playing like music inside the otherwise empty space. A plan so ridiculous, no execution of it seemed wise. He'd later blame it on the prior drinks, just like everything else that night.

_Sod it._

Draco cleared his throat and spoke nonchalantly before better judgement could prevail.

"When I was nine, my parents made me take ballroom dance lessons."

Granger's head snapped up like he knew it would. Her eyes narrowed as if the information he offered was laced with something. "W-what?" She wiped her face with the sleeve of her pink jumper.

Too late to back down now. He knew she'd heard him, so he continued casually.

"They claimed it was important – said I'd need it when I was older," said Draco, giving an offhanded shrug at the disclosure.

"Er... okay?" she whispered, bemused.

He leaned forward slightly, meeting her gaze and not letting go. "For one lesson, it fell on a day before this huge charity function my parents were hosting here. So, the ballroom was occupied with... things, people, decorations? I don't even know anymore."

Her eyebrows couldn't possibly shoot up any higher.

"So..." Draco allowed a forced chuckle, willing himself to keep up a confident inflexion, "I had that day's particular lesson in the drawing room."

He watched the witch visibly tense, although her attention didn't unglue itself.

" _And_ – as the cherry on top – it so happened to be my grave misfortune that my grandfather was entertaining guests that day. Back before he died, he did so quite often," Draco quickly clarified.

She gave another sign of bewilderment, and he made a face as if digging deep inside his memories.

"So, somehow," drawled Draco with a dramatic hand movement, "don't even ask why – I get into this  _terrible_  predicament, you see. Performing this... ballroom dance routine in front of  _literally_  five to ten higher-ups within pure-blood society."

"Oh my God."

And there it was: the tiniest smile meeting with a single tear.

"Hold on." He held up one finger. "I'm not done yet. It gets worse."

She bit her bottom lip, stifling the smile.

He proceeded. "So, like I said, here I am: doing this... ballroom dance recital solo. Why? Still, to this day, I don't know. With a fucking audience, mind you." He added a theatrical pause, relishing in the way she held onto every word. "And, I guess at the time, no one thought to transfigure or remove the rug –"

"Oh, no..." She put a hand over her mouth to shield whatever expression it hid.

"Oh, yes."

"So?" she sniffled, nudged him onward.

"So, I ate shit. Completely," he added shamelessly. "Tripped over one corner, I don't even know how –  _whatever_. Next thing I do know, I'm flat on my face."

"Merlin." Her hand cupped her mouth before she lowered it to question, "Were you okay? Did you start crying?"

" _Worse_ ," he stressed, pointing towards the rug beneath the long table for emphasis. "My fucking nose starts bleeding –"

"No..." And there it was again. The laugh he knew such a ridiculous anecdote would trigger, hidden behind tear steaks and puffy eyes. "You're lying," she insisted.

"Granger, I couldn't make this shit up if I wanted to."

As if she only then just noticed how incredibly strange it all was, she questioned, "W-why are you telling me this?"

_Good question._

He let a too-long moment run between them before answering. "I thought you might've wanted a better image from inside this room," admitted Draco truthfully, "than whatever else was going through your mind right now..."

Her face fell for a moment, understanding the implication.

"And, tell me," she hiccupped, brushing a strand of brown hair back, "you assumed a child  _bleeding_  was that image?"

He shrugged, laughing despite himself. "Hey, you're a violent person, Granger."

"Is that so?"

"So history would confirm." He smirked at the memory from their schooldays, remembering it more fondly than he should have.

A pink hue crept into her cheekbones, and she averted her gaze. He wanted to know what she was thinking, wanted to bombard her with a hundred more questions. Anything that would make her continue speaking. When she finally did, it was likely the last thing he expected to ever pass between them.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy."

His smile dissipated, studying her dried tears and gentle frown. What could have possibly prompted  _her_  to apologise? Inches away from where she was tortured, from where she probably at one point thought her life would end, and  _she_  was the one saying sorry?

"For what?" asked Draco before he could stop himself. He wanted this version of Hermione Granger to vanish, so far off from the symphony of headstrong behaviours he was accustomed to. Perhaps if he said anything else in that moment, any one of the swarming thoughts which he was avoiding –

_I'm sorry; for everything._

_I was wrong; I still am._

_You win._

_You won…_

– she wouldn't have looked at him with the most broken glint in her earth-hued eyes right then.

"For this," Granger whispered, hanging her head as if hiding something. "I – this," she faltered, finding no words that came easily. "This isn't me."

_Me either_.

"It's fine," he told her, willing himself not to confess anything else. Whatever was boiling up inside him needed to be doused, but the sparks from her tear-stained apology only acted like an  _Incendio_ to whatever that was _._

_Break me like I let them break you,_ he wished _. Hate me like you should._

More words lost to the realm of unspoken thoughts.

"I'm such an idiot..." she spoke with difficulty, waterworks threatening to reappear at any moment.

He refused to allow it.

"Yes, well," smirked Draco, standing up and brushing off his trousers, "glad there are so many things we can still agree on, Granger". The way her brows furrowed and annoyance flamed across her delicate features could've melted glaciers. "However," he teased, strolling up to where she was, "you're lucky I'm such an  _incredibly_ forgiving person."

A similar expression flashed over, but something changed in her eyes that time.

"Now, come on," he outstretched a hand for her to take, "get up... I'll walk you upstairs."

She stared at his unexpected gesture, contemplation he could practically hear out loud whizzing around them. Her hesitation vanished as she put out an arm in return, their palms grazing briefly before his hand closed fully around hers. With one motion, he pulled her up smoothly.

"Thanks."

They both let go as soon as she was standing, a bit too close before she stepped backwards. They exchanged a fleeting glance before Granger murmured, "Lead the way."

He did. The journey upstairs couldn't have been described as anything short of awkward; silence rang between them the entire way. After what seemed like a walk to London and back, they arrived outside her room. The empty corridor echoed his voice.

"Get some rest," said Draco, glancing towards the door and motioning. "I'll see you tomorrow." He'd made it one whole step before she intervened.

"Draco, wait..."

_Draco?_ The word sounded like a harmony coming from her lips.

He turned back around until they were face to face. "Yes?"

In a moment that seemed more ordinary than most, something lit a fire beneath her heels, and she advanced. "Thank you," she whispered, looking up so he could see each individual speck of gold within her eyes. "For – well... for staying."

He nodded, not willing to exert the energy to brush off her thanks. To step back; to walk away.

Fuck, she was close now. So close, he could smell that same scent she'd always exuded. Not fruity, not flowery, nothing even close to expensive perfume... Just her. Just Granger.

"You're welcome," answered Draco softly, knowing those two words alone sealed everything.

She had the air of someone who was about to jump off a bridge; doubt and panic creasing her forehead until she finally hurled herself headfirst. Their breaths mingled for a surreal second before she took that last fateful step off the imaginary ledge, free falling until their worlds crashed together.

The ripples of her impact were enough to part oceans.

She tilted her head and brushed her lips against his – soft and slight and fucking mind-numbing, enough to halt all outside thoughts quicker than any Unforgivable Curse. The insane ambiguity of it faded to meaningless as she leaned into him.

As she  _wrecked_  him.

All the things he should have done in that moment were overridden by only one – his lips falling between hers as their eyes fluttered shut. Her fingertips ran along the skin of his cheek; his hand found the dip in her waist. He gave into the moment of peace in a situation which bore every possible shred of chaos. She tasted like fucking bliss.

Until the bitterness of reality replaced such sweetness.

Draco ripped himself away, practically flattening himself against the opposing wall as their eyes opened and locked. She breathed as if she'd just finished sprinting, her chest heaving up and down as her face contorted with horror. Regret? Something else entirely.

He willed himself to say something. Anything. Insulting, clever, or the like; but only a silent stare passed between them.

"Granger –"

"I-I'm sorry," she said suddenly, her fingertips reaching to touch her lips. "I... I shouldn't have done that."

She spun around and ducked into her room before giving him the slightest chance to say otherwise. To say wait. To say sorry.

To kiss her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Special thanks to all the people who've faithfully provided such awesome feedback throughout this story. It's probably borderline unhealthy how much writers thrive off reviews, but hey – they're the best type of motivation, in my opinion. So thanks to all the lovelies who take time to leave comments.
> 
> As always, lots of love to Phinoa for putting up with my neediness. And for sorting through my 25684 google doc comments.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed and continue enjoying the upcoming chapters!


	16. Freedom

 

***Day Thirteen***

Hermione woke the next morning with restless limbs and a dull headache. Her eyelids felt like brick weights as she shut them again, forcing out the memories from last night.

Humiliation. Confusion. Nothing could even begin to describe her lingering emotions which came bubbling back up to the surface.

 _Reckless_  was walking down that staircase in the first place.  _Foolish_  was staying inside the drawing-room when there was a clear exit, waiting on a sign from Godric knows what – as if possessed by a force stronger than her own. She almost wished she could lie to herself with that as an excuse; spiritual possession seemed an easier alternative than admitting reality…

Because the truth was: kissing Draco Malfoy, post-breakdown, inside the same home she'd been tortured in three years earlier could've been marketed as a side effect for absinthe.  _Who does something like that?_ Her conscious chided for upwards of the hundredth time. She was supposed to be smarter than this. Albeit that defence had proved incorrect more than once within the past twenty-four hours.

Not surprising in the slightest, she'd slept as if the bed was made from jagged rocks. The images from earlier raced through her mind. She closed her eyes, and there were his lips: spilling out that utterly  _ridiculous_  story from earlier, the odd but welcomed sensation it induced returning all over again. She'd fallen for whatever mind game he played. Fallen for even more than that.

_Don't go there again..._

But she did, every time.

As she squeezed her eyes tighter, the scene shifted to outside the guest suite upstairs – her barmy decision to plunge forward and how it felt when he'd ripped himself away.

Hermione groaned into her pillow. Pathetic she was.

This was  _Malfoy_ , for God's sakes. The same boy who'd once warned her not to touch him because he didn't want Mudblood on his hand. The boy who'd belittled her for her appearance; her affiliations; her parentage, for years on end… Opinions like those didn't just disappear overnight. Was she supposed to believe that he'd woken up over the past few years with a bettered soul and dissolved partialities?

_Of course not..._

But she'd also learned he was more complicated than she'd rather admit. Unfairly beautiful and unarguably bright, a prime example of nurture overpowering nature. And she couldn't fix him – wipe off that haughty sneer or change that sarcastic disposition that he wore like newly tailored dress robes. Both qualities just fit.

She dug her face farther into the pillow, another groan of frustration escaping. Nothing was getting resolved by her laying in bed and replaying the event like a bad television rerun. They'd talk about it eventually; she just needed to collect her thoughts before they morphed into equally regrettable decisions.

A single knock on her door suddenly thrust the conversation into a fast-approaching reality.

Hermione glanced towards the clock in hopes she'd merely dreamt the noise. Already after nine in the morning, but Merlin, she still felt like arse.  _Not now, why now?_  Her mind raced as she made a futile attempt to part and flatten her horrid case of bedhead.

_No._

Hermione halted before reaching the door. She hadn't even begun mentally preparing herself for what she needed to say to him – she hardly knew what that was in the first place.

_Sorry for kissing you._

That wouldn't quite do, would it?

_Sorry you had to witness such a humiliating example of my apparent mental decline and poorly made decisions._

Right. Neither would that…

_Did you feel something?_

Mother of Merlin, certainly not  _that_.

He'd made his feelings quite clear without needing to say a single word. And regardless, he could wait until after she'd showered and dressed before coming up, wands ablaze, to discuss… what exactly?

Glimpsing at herself in the full-length mirror, Hermione grimaced. She'd stripped off her pyjama bottoms while sleeping, now wearing only an oversized nightshirt which fell right above her knees. Add in the blotchiness of her face and the redness in her eyes, and she was reasonably certain she'd seen better days after hunting Horcruxes for months on end.

"Go away!" she yelled, childish as it was.

She couldn't face what Malfoy wanted to say. Admit her mistakes and confess she'd gone entirely mental. It was just easier to pretend last night ended a thousand different ways than it did.

Another knock soon amplified her annoyance.

"I'm serious, Malfoy! I'm not in the mood!"

_The mood?_

"Er – I didn't mean…"

_Didn't mean what?_

What a mess – not even looking at him and she was already cocking this up. She summoned all the willpower to keep her voice from cracking.

"Please, just leave… I-I can't do this right now."

 _Or ever_ , she silently wished it were possible.

The following rap on her door sounded louder than the first three, and something within the coarse gesture made her snap.

"Oh, give it a rest already!" Hermione gave a defeated groan, one hand clenched in a fist as the other reached for the door. She swung it open, blaring, "Seriously? What part of  _go away_  do you not unde – oh God…"

_Oh no._

Her mouth snapped shut.

Because standing on the other side of her door, was  _not_  Draco Malfoy… Instead, two different sets of eyeballs bore down on her scantily clad frame. She choked on a lungful of air before forcing out the clumsy greeting.

"Oh. Er, h-hello… Good morning."

The morning hardly qualified as anything within the realm of 'good'.

"Good morning, Miss Granger!" said the cheerful voice of Alabaster Greengrass, stepping forward past the willowy woman who'd been knocking. He beamed ignorantly, looking as if about to announce the winner of the Quidditch World Cup while Hermione stared dumbstruck. "My dearest apologies for such an unannounced visit. I do hope we didn't wake you."

She silently prayed to any deity listening that the floor would open and swallow her whole. Gods, take her now; she wasn't even wearing a bra, and Narcissa Malfoy was eyeballing her as if she were a heinous blood-stain on the carpet.

"Not at all. I was just… reading," she lied, doing another brush-through of her wild locks as worry soon replaced the humiliation. "What's going on? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes. Everything's perfectly fine," Greengrass assured her, waving a hand dismissively. "I was planning to come by yesterday morning, but a few things came up in-between, you see. We're sorry for such short notice."

The Malfoy matron looked just about everything except apologetic.

"But," Greengrass continued, lifting one finger and grinning broadly, "we come bearing exciting news!"

She perked up. "Really?" Prior fears dissipated as she braced for the much-anticipated report she'd been waiting on. Information blatantly  _withheld_ , despite a clear effort made on her part.

"You can finally return home, Miss Granger! I'm a man of my words – promised you two weeks or less, didn't I?"

Hermione kept her jaw locked so it didn't hang open, mirroring that of a gasping fish. "I – oh," was all she managed to stutter out, gawking dumbly. "So… so you found the culprit? That's wonderful! Who? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." Greengrass gave another wave, brushing off her concern. "It's been over a full week since we've received any evidence of attempted contact. After careful review, we've deemed the threat low enough for you to return home and resume –"

"Wait, WHAT?"

"… your regular work schedule for this upcoming week."

"You haven't made any progress?" she asked in disbelief.

"We have a few more leads," his voice raised an octave higher, "and we'll be following them diligently –"

"Will you now?" Hermione bit back anger, unable to conceal the obvious doubt.

He nodded, disregarding her sceptical tone with an ignorant smile. Narcissa Malfoy however, looked equally exasperated as she – at either Hermione or the man standing next to her, it was unclear. She stood there, looking down her nose at the younger witch, in silver and black robes Hermione thought suited better for a cocktail party than a Sunday morning spent at home.

"I assure you, we'll continue handling this case as our topmost priority," said Greengrass as if bartering with precious goods. "It will remain open. I've assigned the same team of Aurors to work around the clock until this man is caught. We're just going to be… shifting our direction of focus, is all. And we thought it best for you to return home, which – as you made so wonderfully clear in that colourful letter of yours – was of the utmost concern. Correct?"

Hermione could physically feel one of her eyelids twitch.

"I – but… you  _insisted_  that it wasn't safe for me to stay there until this individual was caught."

_Hypocrite, bollocks, complete idiot…_

She forced the words to stay inside.

What was she doing? Wasn't this what she wanted in the first place? Her freedom and independence were being handed back on a silver platter, and she was  _fighting_  it? To hell with safety, she'd insisted since day-one she could protect herself just fine… She knew other reasons were drawing her to stay. And if anything was motive to leave, it was that.

"Miss Granger, I assure you, I wouldn't be here telling you all if this if I didn't believe it was the best direction for us to take."

* * *

xXx

 _Unit #506_  
_29 Bush Ln_  
_London EC4R 0AN  
_ _44 20 7628 0680_

 _They finally gave me the all-clear to return home.  
_ I _didn't want to bother you in case you were still sleeping. My address is listed above; write sometime if you'd like._

_They're disconnecting my Floo from the network entirely (as an extra precaution), so the only way I can receive a call is via Muggle telephone. Doubt you have access to one, but I listed my phone number too, in case that somehow changes._

_I'm here if you ever want to talk. Thanks for everything last night. Sorry I was such a mess._

-  _Hermione_

She was gone long before he read it. The guest suite was vacated, rearranged to how it looked before Granger ever stepped foot inside. An eerie greyness flowed in from the large window; a dreary day to match its sullen events.

She left.

She left, just like he had.

He should have hammered on her door last night, relentless until she came out and explained what in the hell just happened. He shouldn't have ripped himself away like some coward. Instead, he'd simply walked off and met an unpeaceful night filled with images of Granger: on his drawing room floor, kissing him in the hallway, kissing him while tangled up in the sheets of his bed…

Merlin's last fuck, what was she doing to him?

A tiny cough came from outside the room's entryway and snapped Draco from his reverie. He turned, his brow furrowing at the figure standing within the open doorway.

"Looking for something?" His mother announced her presence, strolling inside the empty room.

The question of whether she'd been waiting around within the adjacent corridor all along crossed his mind, but he calculated his response more carefully than blurting out that accusation.

Draco shook his head, muttering a confident but casual, "No. I was just curious as to what happened… That's all."

"Hm," she made an indignant noise, crossing the carpeted ground. "Funny. I was going to ask you the same thing."

His stomach twisted, but before he could find a reply, she drew in a sharp breath and spoke with precision.

"I don't want you spending any more time with that girl, Draco... Do you hear me?"

He snorted. "Sounding a tad trite there, mother –"

"I'm serious." The look on her face was more than enough to back up the statement. "I thought for certain you of all people wouldn't require an ongoing reminder of who she is to us. Although, perhaps –"

"Don't," he used a warning tone comparable with that of her own.

"… I misjudged."

He contemplated arguing against it, or perhaps just agreeing for reaction's sake and shock value. However, he stayed quiet until giving the slightest nod and muttering under his breath, "Perhaps so."

Narcissa straightened her back, apparently deciding they'd spoke enough on the subject.

"I spoke earlier with Alabaster Greengrass," she began, crossing both arms. "When he came by to retrieve the girl… His youngest daughter Astoria is rather lovely, you know. Do you remember much of her?"

She had the subtlety of ten brawling giants, and Draco rolled his eyes when she glanced away. "You called their family a lot of blood traitors no more than a month ago."

"Ah, but with noble blood and high standings – and aspirations set even higher." She paused, stepping up until she stood right beside him. "As I've said, darling… times are changing. We must acclimate ourselves accordingly."

"Right," said Draco, meaning something entirely different than she did. "I couldn't agree more."

* * *

xXx

"You're certain you heard them right?" asked Astoria, sporting a dubious expression. "Malfoy? As in…  _Draco_  Malfoy?"

"No,  _Lucius_ Malfoy," said Daphne sarcastically before chucking the nearest object within reach (which happened to be a stray pink slipper laying on the ground) at her sister. "Of course Draco, you daft –"

"Hey now," Astoria caught the slipper with one hand before chucking it back to the floor, "I don't come into  _your_  room and start using your head as a Quidditch post."

"Because you're not taking this seriously!"

"I'm listening," insisted Astoria. "Here, sit down. Start from the beginning again – and relax. Your head looks like an overstuffed pepper right now."

Daphne groaned in frustration, taking a seat on her sister's unmade bed. She began retelling the events from last night, explaining their parents' conversation almost in its entirety. The only part she neglected to include was their mention of Hermione Granger… That detail had yet to make sense.

What did her case have to do with the Malfoys? And why in the world was her mother aware, let alone involved with, when or  _if_ it got solved? It hardly concerned her, of all people.

The only good thing was: the Aurors clearly hadn't worked out the slightest fragment of truth. They'd pulled off everything – the letters, the Floo breach, the threats – more flawlessly than she could've imagined. So then, it begged the question… Why was she left with nothing more than a lingering sense of guilt and fears of waking up in a four-walled cell in Azkaban?

"They don't know shit about Dennis and me," muttered Astoria bitterly once Daphne finished the story. "They think they do, but they don't."

"Yes, well… I told you before, you and that Creevey boy need to be more careful –"

"Oh, just fucking give it up." Astoria rolled her eyes dramatically. "Spare me the impending lecture; I already know how you feel about this."

Annoyed by her sister's flippancy, she muttered, "It doesn't really matter how  _I_  feel."

_It never truly did._

Daphne continued, dropping her voice. "You know, you'll have to pretend like I didn't tell you anything... Father's out on business right now; he said he'd be back after lunchtime. They're probably going to sit you down sometime tonight –"

"Brilliant. Then I can tell them both I'd rather drink goblin piss than enter into some loveless, forced marriage."

"You're being unreasonable," said Daphne, offering what she considered to be wonderfully supportive advice. "So, the timing isn't ideal. But so what? I mean, Draco… he's –"

"Please don't finish that sentence." The brunette held up a hand. "Honestly, Daph. You could tell me he's got a cock made out of diamonds and a private island about to be named after me – I really couldn't care less."

Daphne made a face of disgust, questioning for what seemed like the thousandth time if her sister was raised in the mountains by trolls instead of the quaint countryside home they sat within now.

"Must you be so crass all the time?"

"Must you be so painfully predictable?" asked Astoria. "You're doing it again: talking me into this courtship rubbish, just like Mum."

Daphne decided on a more sensible approach.

"You and I both know you can't avoid this indefinitely… You're going to have to enter into a respectable marriage with  _someone_ , and all I'm suggesting is that you might want to consider what's best in the long run."

"Oh? Like not marrying someone for purity preservation and convenience's sake?"

Merlin, this was becoming more frustrating than trying to draw a portrait with a splintered quill.

"He's handsome," said Daphne, forcing calmness into each word. "And wealthier than our family ever will be… And perhaps you may do well to remember that if this opportunity presents itself. Unless you wish to end up with that gangly Durmstrang boy – the one Mum already tried setting you up with.  _Twice_. Yevgeniy  _whatever-the-hell_ his name is."

"She can try all she pleases. I'm not getting pawned off to the highest bidder like some ill-bred house-elf."

"It's not like that –"

"It's  _medieval_!" Astoria paused, her face growing sombre. "And I know you think so, too."

"I –"

"You know, Daph… I've tried being happy for you and Marcus – tried being excited, supportive; I really have. But it's rather difficult when you walk around like you're attending your own funeral half the time."

"I do  _not_! And this isn't even about me." Daphne pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperation she couldn't hide slipping through. "Believe it or not, there are far worse fates out there than a marriage to a wealthy, pure-blood wizard –"

"Is that what you tell yourself?" asked Astoria, her words cutting into the unwanted topic like a dull blade. "Better a life spent as a puppet than disappointing dear old mummy and daddy?"

"You know that's not fair… I  _had_  no option –"

"You had plenty."

 _Plenty._ Disownment and a life spent alienated from half the wizarding world was no option in her mind…

The uneasy thought made Daphne's eyes burn, but she pushed away the sensation. Since when did she become so weak, wanting to cry at the very mention of her past mistakes?

_Perhaps because they're not all in the past._

She shut out the emotion which threatened to spill out like an overturned ink-well.

"I-I was sick."

" _Was_?" asked Astoria, swinging her legs over the side of her bed and standing. "So, what? You're  _cured_  now?"

She meant to open her mouth. She meant to scream that,  _yes_ , she was. That all the in-home Healer visits were worth it; that she was no longer a walking disgrace to her family's name. But the momentary hesitation gave Astoria enough time to forge onward with her increasing tirade.

"No. Of course you're not," said Astoria, blue meeting blue as the sisters locked eyes. "After all those healing spells… Those fucking potions Mum shoved down your throat, the lectures they gave you, the threats they made – you still haven't changed one bit." She paused, emotion breaking through each syllable. "And do you know  _why_  that is, Daphne?"

Only when her sister's statement resonated as if hit with an Amplifying Charm, did a suppressed tear slide down Daphne's cheek.

"Because there was never anything wrong with you in the first place…"

One claim, but it might as well have been a jinx hitting her straight in the abdomen. She wanted to spill out everything – what had happened; all the terrible things she'd done, beyond what Astoria already knew. She wanted to scream all the transgressions she'd committed over the past few months, but all that came out was an undignified gasp for air.

She couldn't breathe. She was choking, gulping as if someone had their fingers closing around her throat. When Astoria's arm draped over her shoulder, she forced out another stifled sound.

"Shit... I'm sorry. Hey, look at me. I didn't mean to make you cry."

"It's not your fault," said Daphne, on the verge of a confession long-overdue. "It's just, I-I… Oh God, Astoria – I did something terrible."

"Shh, it's okay," she assumed without further question, absently stroking Daphne's hair as her voice lowered to barely a whisper. "I know already… I know you're still seeing her."

"N-no, I-I didn't mean –"

"I don't love you any less because of it. You know that, right?"

_If only you knew._

The words only induced more tears. She was glad when Astoria basked in the silence, the pair simply sitting on her bed, youngest coddling oldest until the former cleared her throat.

"So… I was talking to Dennis about you the other day –"

"YOU TOLD HIM?"

Astoria ignored her sister's mortification, placing a finger up to her lips.

"Be quiet! Mum's still downstairs. Like I said, I was talking to Dennis about – everything," she carefully rephrased. "And he said, the Muggles… Daphne, a lot of them don't even  _care_ about… that. It's so much different than us. Different from  _them_."

Apparently, their parents didn't even deserve proper titles by that point.

"Of course they don't care," said Daphne spitefully. "They're  _Muggles_."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they'd mate with goats if given the opportunity –"

"That's not true!"

After the retaliation, a new type of silence fell between them. The kind that made the hair on her neck stand up, knowing something even more volatile was brewing.

"Can I tell you something?" asked Astoria, speaking up first. "But... you have to promise not to tell."

Daphne's heart began thudding, but she nodded her affirmation. "What?"

"After Dennis graduates… he's going to a university up in Wales to study Muggle law," Astoria's eyes didn't even lift from her bedside table as she said it, "and I'm going with him –"

"WHAT?"

"– I've decided. This fall, after your wedding."

"Did you drink Doxy venom for breakfast or something?" asked the blonde, her eyes growing to the size of Quaffles. "Tell me you're joking... You'll lose your inheritance –"

"Keep it all… I don't want a Knut's worth."

"You can't leave." Daphne didn't mean for it to come out so much like a plea, but the panic in her voice crept through. "Y-you can't just follow some silly boy; no plan, no money."

"Oh, but I can marry a boy I've said a whopping sum of four sentences to?"

"That's different. At least you'll be taken care of –"

"I can take care of myself," she argued stubbornly. "I've got enough gold stashed away for two year's worth of living expenses. Besides, Dennis's parents are paying his way –"

"I'll never see you…" Daphne interrupted, the thought spreading like a curse. "Do you want that? You want your name blacklisted from family functions?"

"If it means freedom from this –"

"Freedom from  _what_? We're affluent pure-blood witches with a respectable surname and a father who survived The War without ending up in Azkaban, broke, or  _worse_ ," she said as if reciting pages from a memoir. "People would kill to stand in our places. You're being selfish."

"Selfish…?  _Me_?" Astoria ran a hand through her hair and let out a forced laugh. "You're never going to get it, are you?"

Daphne didn't dare respond as the younger witch flung out her arms, speaking feverishly.

"That there's a whole other world out there beyond the stuffiness of this house. A world we know virtually  _nothing_  about; filled with people we assume as inferior… And maybe it's not because they're dangerous, or primitive, or  _less than_  – "

She could've slapped the insanity out of Astoria right then for such a deplorable claim.

"– maybe it's because we are."

* * *

xXx

Hermione's flat looked the exact same as when she'd left it. Silence flowed throughout every square inch, the only sound being Crookshanks's purr as he trotted up, greeting her like an engine's roar when she lifted him into her arms.

The only dissimilar subject within its four walls was her: still clinging to the same edginess from before, now with a newfound emptiness growing worse by the minute. Regret swelled like an unavoidable sickness. She should have handled things so much differently, realising it only after bidding Narcissa Malfoy a goodbye certainly not wanted or warranted and leaving for good. Forever.

She'd spent a full hour at the Ministry getting debriefed afterwards. A waste of time, she'd concluded on her exit from the Auror's office come early afternoon. They told her much of what she could've already assumed. Since this case was still open, it meant upholding the same level of confidentiality until the perpetrator was caught. Which  _would_  happen, they insisted.

They'd insisted other things before, too.

She was presented with a small stack of letters, from people who had Owled her over the past two weeks – already ripped open and screened. Harry, Ginny, Ron, Luna… The only reassurance was that none seemed of any great urgency. One by one, she wrote back – replies vague but succinct, apologising for the delay in response and assuring that she'd see them all soon.

Back to work she went the following day, after a night spent pushing down fears and ignoring an apprehension that someone might come knocking on her door or breaking through her flat's protective enchantments.

Fellow Ministry employees greeted her with a wild story, one which apparently circulated in her absence. A fib spread by Greengrass himself, she could only presume.

"How's your great-aunt doing, Hermione?" asked Beatrice Doherty less than five minutes after she'd walked into their department come Monday morning. "So good of you to make sure the poor dear was cared for in her time of need."

Hermione fumbled, trying to think up something believable. "Er…"

Perhaps she should have taken advantage of the extra days off her supervisor had willingly offered, but a desire to regain normality overtook most everything else.

"Hip replacement surgery, was it?" asked the older witch before Hermione could reply, appearing fascinated. "Tell me, what is it the Muggles use in replacement of a hip?"

_Because just telling everyone I was on a two-week leave of absence wasn't sufficient …_

"She's doing well. Thanks," said Hermione, rationalising her white lie and changing the subject each time anyone mentioned it. "Did you end up finalising those proposals you'd been working on?"

Her first day back became the longest in history, playing catch up and shaking off questions from most everyone. She'd locked herself in her office by lunchtime, staying at the Ministry until mid-evening to avoid going back to her flat for another night spent alone.

On the plus side, she hadn't received so much as a single murky ink droplet from anyone – a glistening light at the end of her dark tunnel. Hermione doubted someone like that would simply end their ruthless obsession, so when the phone rang in the middle of her late dinner, she nearly dropped her soup spoon into the bowl atop her kitchen table.

Saying a silent prayer that her mother wanted to talk again tonight, she glanced toward the phone. Her heart sank as the word 'UNAVAILABLE' popped up across the caller-ID.

 _Not tonight,_ she thought miserably.  _Why tonight?_

Then again, this person had never contacted her by Muggle phone before… Another consideration crossed over, one even more implausible. She'd given Malfoy her number. What if –

 _Impossible_. He didn't have access to a Muggle telephone, let alone know how to use one, if so.

A concluding ring – one which she should have let roll straight over into her prerecorded answering machine. Instead, her hand flew out, shaking as she brought the receiver up to one ear.

"Hello?" said Hermione, a dash of panic in her voice.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

She allowed a sigh of relief at the familiar voice on the other end.

"Oh, Harry! Hi. It's good to –"

"I haven't heard from you for weeks," he said suddenly. " _Weeks_ , Hermione!"

The fact that she'd kept this entirely under wraps was quickly approaching the territory of consequences, between the crossroads of  _terrible friend_  and  _lying by_   _omission_.

"I know."

She resisted a counter-argument over how she'd gone months without hearing from him or Ron during their time at the academy, especially during training missions more rigorous than others. They'd spent a substantial majority of the past two and a half years having stringent rules on communication, giving her a hope they wouldn't make many attempts to get in contact over the short duration of her absence.

"Did you get the owl I sent yesterday?" asked Hermione hopefully.

"Yes. And I just got off the phone with Ginny, too. Funny thing – she stopped by the Ministry on Friday to see if you wanted to grab lunch, but you weren't there…"

_Oh, no._

"Apparently," he continued, "you've been out of work, taking care of your frail great-aunt for the past fortnight."

"Right, well, I can explain –"

"You don't even have a great-aunt, Hermione!"

"I know!" she admitted before firing out questions. "Look… How much time do you have? Where's Ron? Are you both at the academy right now?"

"I'm out in town using a payphone – I've got liberty until eleven tonight. Ron's on a training mission, but he'll be back Friday afternoon," he answered equally fast. "Start talking. Now."

She took a heavy breath. "Fine, but I'm not supposed to be telling anyone this, so you can't say anything… And you really mustn't worry, either. Everything's perfectly under control."

Hearing her feigned confidence made Hermione almost believe it. After a long pause and Harry's agreement, she began from the beginning, her explanation long-winded and purposely skirting around specific points.

"When exactly did the letters start again?" asked Harry before she finished.

"A little before Christmas –"

"BEFORE CHRISTMAS?"

"Calm down," Hermione chided into the receiver as she absently walked over to the couch and plopped down. "Like I said, they were harmless at first. Pushy and odd, sure. But nothing dangerous."

"Why didn't you tell us when we were home for the holidays?"

She sighed, having asked herself that question numerous times already.

"With everything that happened with Ron… He just – Harry, you know he was one stuffy nose away from dropping out of training completely. I didn't want to bother either of you with something so trivial."

"Trivial? Hermione, someone stalking you isn't  _trivial_."

"Are you going to let me finish or not?"

He went silent, and she proceeded to delve even further, explaining the house-elf she'd found lifeless at her doorstep; the Imperiused Muggle who'd knocked on her door; the contents of the self-proclaimed 'love note' she'd received. She skated around one topic in particular, but Harry interrupted before she could breeze past.

"A safe house? Where?"

"I just stayed with a family the Ministry recruited for a little bit."

Not a lie, and thankfully, he didn't require details beyond those. She'd tell him eventually, but tonight over the phone didn't seem like the wisest opportunity.

"And they still haven't caught this creep yet?" he asked in disbelief. "What are you doing home then? You should stay with your parents for a while, at the very –"

She never did hear the end of what Harry said. A knock on her flat's front door made Hermione's head whip around, so much so that the cordless receiver almost slipped from her grasp.

Her heart pounded against her chest as she shakily stood from the couch. Gods, not again. Not right now. Why was this happening  _again_?

"Hermione? Are you there?"

"Sorry," she breathed into the receiver, the hair on her arms prickling like a ghost just passed by. "I thought I heard something."

Walking up the door, she squinted through the peep-hole.

_Oh. My. God._

"Is everything okay?"

_No._

Hermione put a hand over her mouth to stifle an astonished gasp. She waved her wand to lift the multiple locking charms on her door before higher-level thought could take over and whispered, "I'll have to call you back."

"What? Wait!" Harry yelled before she could hang up. "Hermione, I'm on a payphone!"

She really shouldn't have opened the door so soon, because now there was no going back. She stood there speechless, the receiver pressed to one side of her face and both eyes locked to the figure standing within her doorway.

"Granger, what in the world are you –"

But as soon as she put her fingers up to her mouth in a panicked flush, his question silenced.

"Who was that?" demanded Harry. "Is someone there?"

"No one," she lied. "Crookshanks accidentally stepped on the remote… I've got to go – he just knocked something over."

"Hermione –"

"I'm fine, Harry! Really. Call me back when you can, okay? I'll talk to you soon."

She didn't bother listening to his response before clicking the red button to disconnect the call. She lowered the phone from her ear, blinking wildly as if the image before her might dissipate, unsure if she wanted it to or not.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes… I know! But before you crucify me for ending yet another chapter with a terrible cliffhanger (I know I deserve it), let me just say – the next chapter is completely written! :) It just needs a little more TLC, but I should be able to update within the next few days. Sorry it's been taking so long. These two chapters are pretty crucial, so I wanted to take my time writing/editing them (plus school has been slowly overtaking my life and sanity, but that's a whole different story…).
> 
> As always, shout out to Phinoa for being so supportive and reading literally anything I throw her way. You're amazing, love.
> 
> I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and continue on to have a happy New Year! Thanks so much for the continued support. Until next time.
> 
> ~MMM


	17. Racing Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never done this before, but why not. Song rec for this chapter: Colors (Stripped) by Halsey.

Hermione toyed with the sleeve of her jumper, a stray fringe occupying her focus until she formulated the only question which seemed worthwhile.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Hardly the greeting she was going for, but it certainly got the message across.

"Well, hello to you, too," drawled Malfoy.

This wasn't happening. She was dreaming it, hallucinating. But no matter how many times she blinked, the backdrop to such an implausible spectacle didn't budge.

"Why…" She let her next question trail off, swallowing the lump in the back of her throat. "Y-you're here."

"Brilliant observation," he said nonchalantly. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

" _Why_?"

Draco ignored her enquiry, peering straight over her shoulder and inside the open flat.

"Is there an Auror staying with you?"

"No."

"No?" His focus snapped back on her, and if Hermione hadn't known better, she might've confused his stiff tone for genuine concern. "They're letting you stay here  _alone_?"

"They aren't  _letting_  me do anything…" She placed a hand on one hip, growing frustrated. "Did you seriously come all this way just to make sure no one's kidnapped me yet?"

"No. Although if you answer the door for just anyone, I'm surprised you haven't been... Seriously, Granger – what if they'd taken Polyjuice?"

"Oh, please." Hermione rolled her eyes, not bothering to mention how the added security they'd put on her complex could've rivalled that of Gringotts. "Because someone trying to lure me out of my flat is really going to impersonate  _you_ , Malfoy."

He smirked. "Clearly, it would have worked."

_Clearly_.

"Was there something I could help you with?"

She partly wanted to invite him in; half wanted to slam the door in his face without further explanation, uncertain of which choice unnerved her most. Internally debating both options, she glanced down the hallway to make sure no one else could overhear the conversation. Not another soul in sight, and given the hour, it wasn't surprising.

"Looking for someone?" he answered her question with another.

"No. Just trying to discern if this visit has a purpose."

"It does."

"Being... what?" she asked. "Did Greengrass put you up to this? Come to make sure I'm not bloodied up on my kitchen floor after one night alone?"

_Never mind that you were the one to give Malfoy your address…_

Even so, it still wasn't an explanation for him showing up there. Unless her note had come off in that way? Like reading between the lines of  _I'm here if you ever want to talk_ directly translated into something else. Something more.

_Maybe it did._

Hermione began severely reevaluating her previous decisions until he finally cleared his throat and clarified.

"Actually, I came to return something."

"Oh?"

So normally well-spoken and right then her vocabulary was reduced to that of a three-year-old's. Her eyes grew huge as he reached inside his pocket, noticeably equipped with an Extension Charm, and withdrew something.

"I found this lying around," said Draco, the CD player she'd all but forgotten about appearing in his right hand as he held it out for her to take. "Figured I'd bring it back."

"Found it?" Hermione repeated, working to steady her tone.

"Yes."

She almost corrected him – nearly made it a point to emphasise how  _he_  was the one who'd stolen the item (for reasons still unknown) and held it captive in the first place. Or perhaps just mention how he easily he could have sent it via post versus coming all this way. Instead, she held onto each truthful accusation, a fluttering sensation settling deep within her stomach.

"I – okay. Thanks…"

She took hold of the Walkman and inspected it. An insignificant gesture to most, it might as well have been a white flag waving in their book. An imprudent impulse to drop the device, fling her arms around his neck, and give a repeat performance of that night in question washed over, but thankfully, it went ignored due to his following question.

"Something the matter?"

_Only my better judgement._

"You could've kept it," rambled Hermione as if keeping her lips preoccupied meant they wouldn't make the same mistake twice. "If you'd like. I mean… I wouldn't have minded, really. I've got another. It only plays cassettes, but it still works. Call me old-fashioned, I guess." She forced her mouth shut, embarrassment burning both cheeks. What in Godric's name was she saying? "I – sorry… You haven't the slightest clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

His blank stare was enough indication.

"Here," Hermione thrust out the CD player, "you keep it –"

"No," said Draco, and as if clutching for any excuse to shoot down the suggestion, he added, "I don't have any use for your Muggle rubbish, Granger."

"Is that so?" She gave a knowing smirk, trying to slide over the on-button with little success. "Interesting, well... Surely the batteries must have died  _somehow_."

The look on his face was rather endearing; she had to admit. A mixture of confusion and stubborn willpower – his adamant persistence never to admit defeat. This time, it was he who glanced down the deserted hallway lined with neighbouring flats.

"You came here for another reason," said Hermione, raising an eyebrow.

"I told you, I came to return –"

"Rubbish. You could've Owled me this, and you know it."

He frowned and she looked back down at the circular device, turning to toss it on the entryway's side table beside the abandoned telephone. When she turned back to face him, he spoke up first.

"I should go –"

"Wait."

Draco froze, waiting on an explanation she didn't have and likely never would.

"That's it?" she asked, mentioning the unspeakable with a reckless rush of confidence. "We're just going to pretend like the other night never happened? Pretend like this is perfectly fine? Like you just... just showing up here, unannounced, is completely normal –"

"You left," said Draco before looking straight at her. "You left without saying shit – you think  _that's_ perfectlyfine?"

She deadpanned, summoning the leftover shards of courage shattered by his claim.

"What did you expect?"  _You pulled away._ "Did you expect me to come grovelling?"  _Never_. "Apologise for what happened?"  _Because I won't._

"No, but –"

"I didn't know what else to say," Hermione admitted, honesty trickling out like a poorly mended rooftop. "So, I'm sorry… for thinking a note would be the easiest goodbye between two people like us –"

"And who would that be?" he asked unexpectedly. "Two people like  _us_?"

Ignoring the tugging sensation of guilt, Hermione locked glances with the wall behind him, as if eye contact alone could somehow foster Legilimency.

"A mistake."

Her concentration returned only when he took a sweeping step forward.

"Well then," said Draco, his hand finding the nape of her neck as if it belonged there, "good thing I'm used to making those."

"Yeah…" Hermione shuddered over the depleting distance between them. "Me too."

She didn't know which one of them leaned in first. It didn't matter, seeing as neither made any attempt to pull back.

He tasted better than she remembered, like sweet danger and reckless insanity, parting her lips with a gentle skim of his tongue. She granted him unrestricted access, both hands rushing to catch herself as she fell back against the open door frame – nothing but perfect caresses and impulsive movements controlling their uninhibited showcase.

Everything happened so quickly; she could hardly distinguish between where his movements ended, and hers began. A tiny voice of reason begged her to run back inside her flat, as alone and embarrassed as the other night. They could sort things out later, in a more sensible way; the way that didn't include their bodies pressed together, the rest of the world collapsing around them faster than her own inhibitions.

Nevertheless, another part of her – the part which had led her to the Manor; had made her walk into that drawing-room; made her take such a thoughtless plunge and kiss him that night – seised control instead.

"Would you –" She fought to get the words out as his lips travelled down her jawline. "Do you want to come in – for, er..."

_Coffee, tea, a bloody crocheting circle, for Merlin's sake, SAY SOMETHING!_

But she'd let too many beats pass to make up for them now. Her gaze dropped, and she could feel him trying to interpret the meaning behind her flushed cheeks and sheepish implication.

"Are you asking me inside, Granger?"

"No," she shook her head. A lie if she'd ever told one, but the smallest look of disappointment crossing his features gave her enough nerve to continue. "I'm asking what you want..."

Pausing for his reply felt like waiting on a pending verdict, the jury still out on the case until he finally drew it to a close, pressing his lips to hers as the door swung shut behind them.

They stumbled across the threshold of her flat, down a hallway and through an empty sitting room, the moments speeding by like a train about to derail.

"Granger, wait," Draco breathed into the space between them, questioning his sanity all the while. "Look… I didn't come here tonight thinking –"

"I know you didn't."

But he hadn't, and she needed to know that. He hardly knew why he'd done it himself – Apparated into Muggle London without the faintest plan besides a shit cover story she saw right through.

So then, what  _was_  the purpose?

To demand an explanation over her vague note? To gain a repeat performance of that night? To see her one last time?

The latter raised worse questions than the way she looked at him right then, darkened eyes and parted pink lips that he knew would fucking ruin him with what she said next.

"It -  _tonight_ …" Her voice broke through his hesitations, telling the single lie they both needed to hear. "It doesn't have to mean anything, you know."

"Just tonight," Draco repeated the rationalisation as her hands began loosening his tie.

He took the momentary pause to intake his surroundings: a modest sized flat decked with things he didn't recognise, pictures of people he didn't know, and furniture which looked painstakingly Muggle to match everything else surrounding it.

Then there was her, wearing the baggiest jumper to contrast another pair of her sinfully tight trousers. The olive coloured top brought out the undertones in her skin, the denim material clutching every curve as she took his hand and led them down another short hallway.

When they entered her bedroom, only the glow of moonlight and London's city brightness crept through her curtain-covered window. Their movements grew desperate as if racing reality, removing articles of clothing between each uncoordinated footfall and zealous kiss.

He tossed her oversized jumper to the floor, not bothering to hide his wandering stare as it raked her body, the witch clad in nothing more than modest undergarments and a cloak of chocolate brown curls. She began unbuttoning his shirt, joining their lips before sliding it off.

When they broke apart, Hermione waited, taking note of how he tensed when her eyes danced around the faint scars on his chest. She ran a hand across his left forearm, glancing down at what she already knew would be there.

"I-it's…"

_Only a scar._

But she faltered, studying the faded remnant of an interwoven mark barely visible through the dim lighting.

"Hey," his fingers brushed her chin, forcing her to look at him, "if you want to stop –"

"Do you?" she asked suddenly.

He paused, furrowing his brow with the answer.

"No."

"Good." Images of skulls and snakes fled her mind completely as she pressed her body flush against his, a telltale firmness prodding her hip bone. "Me neither…"

He trailed shivers down her back before moving to cup a handful of her breast. She bit her bottom lip as the tingling warmth in her stomach travelled lower, surrendering to his wandering touch and the thrill it inspired.

She reached for his belt buckle, making steady work of it until he took her hands and moved them to his shoulders. An undignified squeal escaped as he lifted her from the ground, cradling her backside as he walked them forward.

The mattress creaked beneath her newly-added weight. She sat up, perched on both elbows, and gazed towards the man standing at the edge of her bed. His trousers hung dangerously low, belt and zipper half-open to expose the grey pants peeking out beneath.

A fire lit inside her at the suggestive sight. He was doing it on purpose. Standing there, shirtless and exuding appeal, with his hair tousled and a bulge tenting his slacks.

_Two could play at that game._

Hermione sat up further, boldness overtaking as she reached back to unhook her bra. She slowly pulled the fabric away from her chest, lowering both arms as his eyes lingered, greedily drinking up the sight of her exposed skin.

She tossed the material through midair, his reflexes kicking in to catch the undergarment as the biggest and most sinful simper decorated his handsome features.

"Your turn, Malfoy…"

The way he lifted his gaze and wetted his lips made excitement soak through onto her knickers. Clenching both thighs together, she yearned for the smallest tinge of satisfaction over the growing ache now settling between them.

He moved to indulge her request, hooking his thumbs beneath the hem of his trousers and pulling them down in one swift movement. His arousal sprang free from prior restraints, sitting hard and heavy at a base of blond curls, as a betraying blush crept onto her cheeks.

Before she had time to process the vision, his frame moved atop hers – demanding control within seconds. More lustful twinges accumulated as his mouth feathered across one of her nipples, his hand massaging its counterpart. He tweaked and toyed with both breasts as a string of indecent sounds danced on her tongue.

When his descending touch finally reached the apex of her legs, her breathing hitched with a soft purr of approval. He skimmed the damp fabric of her knickers, trailing an assured middle finger down her covered slit until her hips bucked against his palm, teasing her sex with torturous leisure before moving to shed the unnecessary barrier.

"Fuck, Granger," Draco hissed, slipping a single digit inside her core.

He didn't comment on how ready she already was for him, her excitement that was evidenced by the telltale slickness accommodating his thrusting fingers. She groaned in delight at the overwhelming sensation, his thumb tracing lazy circles around her clit before adding a second digit.

"Oh God,  _yes_ … Please."

"Please,  _what_?" asked Draco, picking up his pace without waiting for an answer.

His cock twitched each time her walls clenched around his curling fingertips, her whimpers drowning out all prior uncertainties more efficiently than a bottle of Firewhisky straight to the head. There was no exaggeration of her noises, no dramatic shrieks to feign enjoyment. Just breathy sighs and sultry moans which she conspicuously tried to censor, as if not wanting to let on how much she enjoyed lying back as he pleasured her senseless.

But he wanted her to scream. To know that she wanted this as much as he needed it. To know he'd abandoned everything – his principles, his self-respect, and most definitely his sanity just to watch her unravel beneath his touch.

A blood traitor, but he knew he'd been called worse. A Mudblood, but Salazar forgive him, she was fucking intoxicating. Filthy in a way he could've never predicted. Dirty only in the muddled-up images which made his cock stand at attention late at night.

"Draco, if you keep – ah!  _Fuck_ ," she cursed when he brushed the sensitive spot against her front wall.

"Gryffindor's golden girl knows how to swear after all," he murmured, pressing his hardness into the mattress, and wishing instead it was her tight heat.

"Your faul – oh God," she moaned, grabbing hold of his wrist. "Wait!"

He obeyed the request, his free hand moving to fist her wild curls.

"Tell me what you want, Granger."

And he knew whatever her answer was, he would begrudgingly oblige. Even if she whispered the dreaded words which commanded him to stop. Or if, Salazar-willing, she muttered the ones which begged him otherwise – to kiss her, touch her, fuck her with his tongue,  _whatever_ filthy request she could conjure for him – there was little he wouldn't do for the witch panting beneath him.

"To feel you," she said finally, nothing but the intoxicating scent of her sex lingering between them as he withdrew from her. "All of you," she clarified before reaching between their bodies, her fingers leisurely stroking him up and down.

He shivered at the caress, arching into her palm ever so slightly. Settling between her parted thighs, her forced them wider apart with his knees, her pussy like liquid satin as his cock grazed against it. He must have spent too long savouring the curves of her body, the feel of her shivering in anticipation beneath him, because soon she interrupted the trance.

"What?" whispered Hermione, taking note of his momentary pause.

The way she looked right then was sensational: hair flung across the pillow and a delicate blush staining each cheek.

"Nothing," he said so the improper thought wouldn't pass. Instead, he tilted her hips towards him, poised at her entrance, and watched as she tossed her head back – an uninhibited sound of rapture replacing each rapid, shallow breath.

Hermione's eyelids fluttered shut at the contact, focusing on nothing more than the initial rush of them sliding together. Once sheathed by her centre, he stilled, allowing her a moment to adjust. She couldn't resist the same sinful grin he wore right then, curving her spine from up off the mattress and breathing his name, coating it with lewdness worth of a harlot as she rocked herself on him.

"Gods …  _Move_!"

He responded to her pleading whimpers with long, complete stokes: bringing himself to her entrance each time before sinking back in, all the way to the hilt then back out again.

"This what you want?" he teased against the flesh of her pulse point.

She gave a desperate nod, unable to stifle her impulse as the carnal thought broke free. "Fuck, yes –  _harder_."

The primal glint flashing in his eyes made her tighten around him.

She heaved out more obscenities as he fulfilled her sex-laden plea; crashing into her as if his sole goal was to subdue every other sensation except the one building below her navel. Her fingernails scraped his back, nearly hard enough to break the skin, but his growled response and quickening thrusts didn't seem to deliver any objection.

She worked with him, rolling her hips as their bodies fell into perfect rhythm.  _Gods,_  why did he have to feel so exquisite moving inside her? So raw, and rough, and breathtakingly erotic, she could feel his reverberations within her stomach. Their dynamic was sensational, and the caution she'd already tossed to the wind soon dissolved entirely, leaving her with only a wanton wonder of why they hadn't done this sooner…

She allowed herself to get lost in the act alone.

Within minutes, her need grew almost unbearable – her fingers scratching red marks down the veins of his arm to signal her impending release. As if reading her thoughts, he sat back on his haunches and reached between their bodies, splaying a hand across her lower abdomen as his thumb found her aching bud.

"Oh…  _fuck_ ," she panted, unable to string together the broken incoherencies. "Gods,  _yes_ – don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He claimed her orgasm after a few more gentle thrusts and circles drawn around her clit, her toes curling against the soft sheets as his name fell from her lips. The chaos and tension over the past few weeks escaped her; the same animalistic fire which led them there in the first place now surging freely, toppling her right over that glorious peak.

She'd never come for longer; blissful bouts of euphoria rushing out in sequential waves, each stronger than the next until they eventually ebbed. She rode out every last drop of pleasure her climax presented, thoroughly sated as her body went slack against the sheets to signal its inevitable end.

When her eyes fluttered open, they met with his.

Draco's lips tipped into a smirk, looking rather pleased with himself as she laid there static for a few moments; overtaken with a haze of heightened sensitivity and lingering endorphins.

Her display prompted his movements to grow frantic. Never before had he looked so entirely feral as he did right then: his face contorted with pleasure, sweat forming on his temples as he gave one final lurch forward, spilling into her with a low groan of gratification.

Tranquillity washed over his expression after he came. For what felt like the first time, she saw him without lines furrowing his brow, mouth hanging slack-jawed as he worked to catch his staggering breaths.

_What now?_ She didn't dare ask it. Any of it…

She didn't question why he delivered such a tender kiss to her shoulder after he'd fucked her rougher than anyone ever had. Or why she stayed silent after he performed the Cleaning Charm, unwilling to ruin the moment with unnecessary speech or guilty admissions. Hermione simply shared the warmth of her blankets as she threw them over her nakedness, feeling like she could sleep for three straight weeks once her head lay back on the pillow.

She waited for him to leave, to break the bout of silence and snap them both back into reality, but he made no such attempt. Each complicated question swirling around them seemed unimportant as he pulled her to his chest, his heartbeat reverberating so loudly in her eardrum it may as well have been her own. She wrapped an arm around his torso, a small and silent imploration for him to stay.

For whatever morning brought could wait.

Nothing but the smell of men's cologne and the warmth of another's body heat befell her as sleep met Hermione easier than it had in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> 1,000 followers (on ffnet) – holy, wow…. Never did I initially expect this story to reach anywhere close. So thank you all, for the constant love and support and patience directed my way. I truly appreciate it more than you know.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the first sprinklings of smut. I promise the next chapter will contain more plot (as much as I might want to write a pwp of them going on a week-long sexcation to the Greek Isles, I WILL resist).
> 
> To Phinoa, thanks so much for always taking the time to shower me with helpful and supportive feedback. And occasional reassurance that it's okay if the first smut scene doesn't happen until chapter 362 (hey look, it didn't take that long after all). Oh! And also, shoutout for co-parenting one of the lines from this chapter with me hahaha You're amazing, girl.
> 
> Anyway, I've rambled enough.  
> Thanks for reading! Hope you guys are having a good 2018 so far. Lots of love sent your way.
> 
> ~MMM


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